Love Alone Is Worth The Fight
by oucellogal
Summary: Scotty Valens has always been there for Lilly Rush when she needs him. But when a lighthearted evening goes horribly wrong, their roles are reversed. Can Lilly have Scotty's back the way he's always had hers? A L/S shippy take on a plot from the SVU episode "Amaro's One-Eighty." Cold Case canon through 4x24, "Stalker." Crime drama, romance, angst, some humor, and a few donuts, too.
1. Chapter 1

**Love Alone Is Worth The Fight**

_A Cold Case fanfic by oucellogal_

**Author's Note: **Wow! Hello! Is anyone even still here? I feel like I'm emerging from a coma and am stunned to see that it's been (gulp) about five years since I've written anything of substance. The last time I wrote, I'd just had a baby; that baby will be starting kindergarten in the fall! He now has a three-year-old brother and a sister who just turned one.

Like the rest of you, I was bummed when they canceled Cold Case, but totally stoked when Danny Pino got the SVU gig. I followed him to that show, and inspiration struck with the recent episode 'Amaro's One-Eighty.' I couldn't help but ask myself, "What if that had happened to Scotty on Cold Case?" As we all know, 'what-if' questions usually lead to fic. This is the result.

If you've seen 'Amaro's One-Eighty,' you know some of what will happen in this story, but you don't need to have watched it for the story to make sense. (Although, if you haven't, and you're a Danny Pino fan at all, _do_! He knocks it out of the park).

This story is simultaneously a return to my Lilly/Scotty shipper roots and an experiment. I've discovered that taking a plot from one show and trying to apply it to another is harder than it looks. It's sort of like trying to alter a garment. At first, all you think you'll have to do is take out a few stitches and re-sew, but you end up ripping far more seams than you thought you'd have to. This is brave territory for me, not least because I just used a sewing metaphor when I do not, in fact, know how to sew.

Timeline-wise, I'd put it in the later part of the series, if not after it ended. Lilly's shooting happened, but it's comfortably in the past, and nobody's angsting about it. Not much, anyway. Frankie did not happen, nor did Saccardo, Moe Kitchener, Lilly's dad, the return of Christina, or any of the rest of the crap-storm that was the final two seasons.

Disclaimer: The Cold Case characters are the property of their owners. The main plot of the story is from Law & Order: SVU, which I also don't own. Any plot holes are the responsibility of the SVU writers: I don't know enough about law or order to know how realistic most of this is. I kept what served my story and let the rest go.

Enough intro-babble. I just wanted to say hello, I'm still alive and well, and apparently, I am still inspired by Cold Case. I hope the same is true for all of you, and I sincerely hope you enjoy this story.

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Containing Some Good Scotch and an Angry Cabbie**

"I can't believe Vera actually _proposed_."

Scotty's words chase puffs of vapor from his lips as we head down the front steps, the cold night air seeping through our overcoats and nipping at the lingering warmth from the engagement party we've just left.

I chuckle in reply. "I can't believe Miller said yes."

"No kiddin'." Scotty winds a gray woolen scarf around his neck, his deep brown eyes twinkling with mirth. "I figured Nicky'd have had to grovel a whole lot more than he did."

With a light heart, I fall into step with my partner. After all our years together, keeping up with Scotty's purposeful, long-legged stride has become second nature. "Sounds like Miller made him grovel plenty."

Scotty's lips curve in a boyish grin. "Yeah, well…he had it comin', after lettin' the cat outta the bag the way he did."

I smile, remembering the panic-stricken look on Nick Vera's face three weeks back, when a text meant for Miller's eyes only had instead mistakenly lit up the phones of the entire Cold Case squad. Further interrogation of the blustering, heavyset Vera revealed that he and Miller were not only dating, but together—_serious—_and had been for several months. None of us were sure the relationship, or Vera, for that matter, would survive the night. But the next morning, when Miller had arrived with an almost girlish gleam in her eyes and a sparkling diamond on her finger, it was clear that all had been forgiven.

"Y'know what I _really _can't believe?" Scotty interrupts my walk down memory lane.

I quirk a brow in his direction. "What?"

"Vera served us somethin' tonight besides cheap vodka and Natty Light."

"Yeah, no kiddin'." I'm far from a connoisseur, but that scotch was some of the best I've had. "How'd he swing that on our salary?"

"I think Boss and Will went in together on it." Scotty issues a short bark of laughter. "Ain't every day one of us hits the romance jackpot, let alone _two_."

He can say that again.

"Well, this is me." We've arrived at my train stop, and I dig through my wallet for my train pass, then glance back up with a smile. "'Night, Scotty."

Scotty stops, too. "Wanna ride?" A jerk of his thumb to the left. "It's no trouble; I'm parked just around the corner."

Tilting my head slightly to the side, I pause to study my partner in that way I know he hates. He's been doing this a lot since my shooting, this…I'm not sure what to call it. Offering me rides, walking me to my train stop, looking out for me. At first, all this protectiveness annoyed the hell out of me, but lately I've found it…well, something of a comfort. Let's face it, I've never had a line out the door of people wanting to take care of me.

"It's twenty minutes out of your way," I point out. Why do I _do_ that?

"I already said it's no trouble," Scotty retorts. "Now are you comin', or are you gonna freeze your ass off waitin' for the train?"

With a sheepish smile, I close the distance between us, and he tosses me a cocky grin as we fall into step once more. It really is freezing, but the companionable silence, the slight whiff I catch of his aftershave, the warmth I can feel radiating from his body…it kinda takes the edge off a little bit.

He glances over at me. "Hey, you wanna-?"

"_Stop! Police!"_

Footsteps pound behind us. I whirl around just in time to see a shadowy, hoodie-clad figure sprinting across the street a few feet away, a uniformed patrol officer in hot pursuit. Brakes squeal, a car horn blares…and then the shattering of glass and a sickening thud as a taxi slams into our comrade, flinging him high into the air. My stomach wrenches as his limp body falls back to the roof, bounces off, and tumbles to the ground.

I let go of Scotty's arm, which I don't remember grabbing. Adrenaline coursing through our veins, we rush into the fray. The still-rolling taxi honks its horn again, almost as though it's pissed off at the audacity of a fallen law enforcement officer who dared impede its mission.

"Hey, hey, _hey_!" Scotty yells. Equally pissed off.

I put a hand up. "Stop!"

The taxi finally rolls to a halt. Scotty takes just a second to glare at the furiously gesturing driver before he kneels at the officer's side.

"Hey, you all right?" He runs a quick, gentle hand over the uni's ribs. "What's goin' down?"

Our colleague grimaces in pain. "That kid—we saw him do a deal. I think he's got a gun."

I'm on my feet before he finishes his sentence. "Okay, Scotty, call it in," I toss over my shoulder. "I'll go back up his partner."

"Wait, you saw a gun?" Scotty's hand on my forearm stops me.

"Partner did," the officer groans, before his head falls back on the concrete with a painful-sounding thump.

"Then you stay, Lil. I'll go." Scotty's eyes meet mine for the briefest of instants, and in their bottomless depths I read the thousand reasons why any protest I might offer will be a waste of everyone's time. Without another word, he takes off, the rapid staccato of his footsteps disappearing into the midnight chill.

Heart racing, I kneel next to the officer and grab his radio. "Ten-thirteen, officer injured. We're in the five-hundred block of west Tenth Street, and we've got a plainclothes officer in pursuit." A frisson of worry shoots the length of my body as I take a breath for the next words. "Suspect may have a gun."

This done, I turn my attention back to the officer, whose face has paled in the moonlight, and force myself to take a deep breath. "You're gonna be okay, Officer…" I squint to read his name badge.

"Dragin," he rasps. "Mike Dragin."

"Dragin. You're gonna be okay." Maybe if I repeat myself, it'll be true. "Where are you hurt?"

Dragin moans. "Head…back…legs…"

I run my hands over his right leg, and he cries out in pain.

_Dammit._ First aid was never my strong suit. I'm wracking my brain for every last scrap of my training when I feel the weight of a hand on my shoulder. "Ma'am?"

To my right, there's a tall, bearded man in jeans and a Phillies jacket, flashing an identification badge. "I'm a paramedic. Off-duty. I can take it from here while we wait for backup."

I think I call my thanks over my shoulder as I sprint in the general direction of where I last saw Scotty. Naturally, a crowd has already gathered, and I jerk my shield from my belt and flash it at random. "Philly PD," I shout. "Where'd they go?"

A couple of the bystanders point toward a high-rise apartment building. I run in, yanking the double glass doors open and taking the stairs two at a time, squinting from the sudden onslaught of sickly fluorescent light.

I've just reached the second-floor landing when I hear the pop-pop-pop of gunshots. Swearing under my breath, I find another gear and sprint up the last of the stairs, just as a woman's pained shout reaches my ears.

Heart pounding, I crouch just outside the door to the hallway, listening. Waiting. They're still firing.

The shooting stops, and the woman moans.

"You okay?" I allow myself to feel just a smidgen of relief at the sound of Scotty's voice through the door.

"I'm shot," the woman gasps.

I don't need to hear any more. I burst through the door to see another uniformed officer writhing in agony on the cold tile floor. Dragin's partner. She's young. Fresh-faced. Can't have been out of Academy more than a year or two. The air is thick with blood and gunsmoke.

"What the hell happened?" I demand.

Scotty's pressed flat against the white concrete wall of the hallway in a defensive stance, gun out in front of him. His eyes meet mine, simultaneous concern and gratitude shimmering in their depths. "She's shot."

_Tell me something I don't know, Valens. _I crouch beside the fallen officer. Her face is contorted in pain. Blood oozes from a spot just below her left knee, and she lifts her hand from it so I can check the wound. It's messy, but it could be a lot worse. My heart aches for her, knowing the road she's got ahead.

"Keep pressure on it," I instruct her. She grimaces, moans again, and puts her hand back over the wound.

Scotty tosses a questioning glance over his shoulder, and I hasten to reassure him. "She's all right." Turning back to the officer, I meet her eyes and will her some courage. "Backup's comin'," I tell her softly, then draw my gun and take my place behind my partner.

Scotty's shoulders rise and fall with his rapid breaths, the tension in his muscles evident even through his woolen coat. At the sound of anguished wailing echoing through the hallway, he peers around the corner, then looks back at me. Jaw set, he nods, then creeps around the corner. I follow him, a few paces back.

"Keep your hands where I can see 'em." Scotty's voice is rough. "Show me your hands!" I yell similar instructions, our voices bouncing off the cement block walls, mingling with the shouts from down the hall.

When I round the corner, I see a man and a woman kneeling beside a fallen figure. The shooter? My eyes scan the floor for the gun.

"Get your hands up," Scotty orders, then jerks the man to his feet by his elbow. The man ricochets along the wall. I train my gun on him for a couple of seconds, then turn back to help Scotty.

The woman still isn't listening to us. Can she hear us through her sobs? Does she even speak English?

"Ma'am," I say, with a little more gentleness than Scotty had. She's still wailing in-is it French? I can't make it out. I draw her to her feet and put her by the wall next to the man.

Scotty crouches next to the shooter. "Secure the gun!" I still haven't spotted it.

Panic edges my partner's voice. "Where's the gun? _Where's the gun?"_

When I turn back to look, Scotty's got the shooter's shirt pulled up. There's blood all over the left side of his abdomen, from his gray T-shirt to the plaid yellow-and-green boxers peeking up over the waistband of his pants. To my right, the woman's hysteria increases by the second.

Scotty's fighting to stay calm. "Suckin' chest wound. Call it in." He rips the woolen scarf from his neck and presses it to the wound.

Only then do I look at the kid's face. It's-oh, my God, he really_ is_ just a kid. He can't be more than fifteen. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. No wonder Scotty sounded panicked.

The boy moans, and the woman next to me falls sobbing to her knees.

Scotty glances over his shoulder at me. The muscle in his cheek is twitching, his face etched with worry. And his eyes are dark with what I know we're both thinking.

This looks bad.

_Really_ bad.

We've _got _to find that gun.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thank you for the kind words, everyone! I've enjoyed hearing from some old friends, as well as meeting some new ones! Glad you're all still here!

I'd also like to thank Collider, who is reprising her role as my Beta Reader of Win and Awesome. All these years later, she still rocks the casbah.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own these characters. Some of you may recognize a character from Castle hopping over to make a cameo appearance; I don't own her,either.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

**Containing Somali Amphetamines, Iron Gates, and Things Which Draw Lilly's Notice**

It seems like weeks before backup arrives. Scotty triages the shooter while I comb floors, stairwells, trash bins, every possible nook and cranny, looking for that damn gun. When CSU bursts onto the scene, I'm all too glad to hand the task off to them.

By the time I return to the third-floor hallway, a crimson smear on the cream-colored tile floor is the only sign of the fallen officer. As for the shooter, the EMTs have him on a stretcher, ready for transport to the hospital.

"Bag his hands for gunshot residue. He shot a cop," Scotty tells CSU. They nod, and the stretcher clicks into place.

For just a moment, I study the boy's face. His mocha skin is pale and clammy with shock; he stares, unfocused, at the ceiling. Did he shoot out of malice? In cold blood? Or was he panicked? Cornered? It seems his parents don't speak any English; does he? Is he from someplace where cops are the enemy, where violence is a way of life, and shooting back is the only hope? I run an absent hand over the side of the stretcher, hoping to find the answer in the young man's eyes, but they flutter closed a split second before the stretcher starts to move.

One of the EMTs pauses next to Scotty. "Nice triage. You saved his life."

We watch the stretcher round the corner, then Scotty turns and slowly walks toward me, trying in vain to wipe the boy's blood from his fingers with a handkerchief.

"Damn near took it, too," he mutters as he passes. Once glance at his face tells me he's got the same questions swirling around his mind that I have.

Suddenly, Scotty bends down and picks something up off the floor. It's shiny. Metal.

But it's not a gun. Just some kind of small, rectangular box.

"What's that?"

"Musta fallen out of his coat." Scotty shakes it open to reveal a wad of dried greenish-brown leaves. He gives it a sniff, then looks back at me. "It's khat."

In response to my furrowed brow, he explains. "East African amphetamine. Ran into it some when I was in Narc. Somali pirates use it to make themselves fearless."

He passes the box to me, an earthy, herbaceous smell wafting into the air between us. As I turn the leaves over in my hands, it all starts to make sense. "So that's why he ran. Why he had the gun."

"Who's the other shooter?" An authoritative voice echoes down the hall and we turn to see a brusque, no-nonsense-looking woman striding toward us, the rapid staccato of her heels echoing off the concrete block walls.

Scotty braces himself and turns around. "I am."

She looks familiar, but I can't quite place her. Looks like Scotty can, though. "Captain Gates. We've met. Scotty Valens, Homicide."

The captain's steely gaze slides from Scotty to me. "And you must be Rush. Your reputation precedes you, Detective."

"Thanks." At least, I hope it was a compliment.

But Gates has apparently dismissed me from her mind and turned her attention back to Scotty. "You saved my guys. Thank you."

My eyes flit toward Scotty, the leftover adrenaline mixing with a sudden surge of pride. He's come a long way since that awkward first meeting outside the interrogation room, that first case where he bratted around like he was too good for us, like working the cold jobs was some sort of dues he'd have to pay before he could get out on the line. Over time, though, he developed a passion for the old cases that almost rivals mine, and now I simply can't imagine anyone else as my partner.

The captain's immaculately-groomed black brows crease in a frown. "I didn't know Homicide was working my precinct."

"Oh, we're not," I reply. "We came upon the scene and saw Officer Dragin get hit by a cab."

"Officer McKenna gave chase," Scotty continues. "I ran in to back her up, she rushed in, got shot, and I fired to cover. How is she?"

"She's lost some blood, but she'll be okay." Gates offers a hint of a smile, and Scotty looks relieved.

"I hate to ask, but I'll need your weapon, Detective. You know the drill," the captain says, with sudden sympathy. "You'll be escorted to the hospital…complete workup, blood alcohol…"

Oh,_ crap_. The scotch. Scotty didn't have a lot—none of us did-and there was plenty of food. But in an officer-involved shooting, even a small amount can spell trouble.

As Scotty pulls his gun from its holster and hands it to Gates, I feel a sudden urge to defend him."It was a good shoot."

Gates arches an eyebrow in my direction. "The kid was armed? Then find the weapon."

Yeah. If only it were that simple.

* * *

The relative quiet of the apartment building explodes into chaos as Scotty and I step out into the chilly night air. Reporters and photographers swarm around us like a school of hungry piranhas, the fangs of their cameras glinting in the darkness. As my eyes adjust, I see Miller and Vera, our senior colleague Will Jeffries, and our lieutenant John Stillman pushing through the fray.

"Hey, thanks for stealin' our thunder, jackass," Miller jokes.

"Yeah, Scotty," Vera agrees. "Miller and I are engaged, but you still gotta make tonight be all about you."

But as Scotty gets closer, Miller's eyes widen, and she drops both Vera's hand and her snarky attitude. "Wait, Scotty, are you okay?"

Scotty frowns. "'Course I'm okay."

Miller's horrified expression leads me to notice, for the first time, the large bloodstain on the front of Scotty's light blue dress shirt. He gazes down at it, fingering the hem of his shirt for a moment, then hastens to reassure Miller.

"The blood…it ain't mine."

Our friends' relief is palpable.

Boss steps forward. "What happened, Scotty?"

"Rush and I…ran into a mess." His voice is still a little shaky. "Uni chasin' a dealer; he shoots her, I shot him. His gun's still missin'. CSU's doin' a grid search."

"Boss, it was a good shoot." I'm beginning to feel like a parrot.

Jeffries looks from me to Scotty. "Lucky for that cop you two were there."

"Is their captain here yet?" Boss asks.

I nod. "Captain Gates."

"Make sure you call her 'Sir,'" Miller pipes up. At the surprised glance she receives from me, not to mention the rest of the squad, she goes on. "Victoria 'Iron' Gates. My old lieutenant from Narc." Closing her eyes, Miller shudders, the motion setting her heavy mass of dreadlocks aquiver.

I'm stunned. What the hell kind of person must this "Iron Gates" be if even Kat Miller is afraid of her? But I can't take too long to ponder that. We have bigger problems.

Vera glances from his fiancée to our lieutenant. "Well, we know her. That's…good, right?"

"Even so, Scotty, don't say anything to anyone until your delegate shows up." Boss extends his right arm. "C'mon, I'll take you to the hospital. The rest of you, go find that gun."

I stand frozen to the spot. Training and logic tell me I need to go back inside, that that's where I can do the most good. And Scotty'll be all right by himself. He's strong. He—he doesn't need me to go along and… hold his hand, for God's sake. Not for a simple blood draw and yet another retelling of this whole sordid story. He can do this. The best way I can help him is find that goddamn-

"Go with him, Lil," My head jerks up to see Jeffries standing next to me. His voice is warm, his gaze penetrating, but kind. "We'll find the gun."

Unexplained heat creeps into my cheeks. Was it that obvious?

I glance toward the lieutenant. "Boss?"

He nods.

"Thanks, Will," I murmur. A hand on my arm, a slight smile, and then Jeffries heads into the apartment building.

I'm on Scotty's right, Boss is on his left, shoving through the crush of reporters and shielding him as best we can from the cacophony of shouted questions everyone knows he can't answer. They press against us all the way to the parked squad car, the swirls of red and blue lights combining with flashbulbs and cell phone cameras to create a macabre disco-ball effect.

I climb into the back seat next to my partner, the slam of the car door instantly muting the hordes. He turns to look at me then, his face drawn, his eyes inky pools of worry. "I ain't sure that boy's gonna make it, Lil."

We've never been all that affectionate, Scotty and me…but all I can think to do now is slide my hand over and slip it into his. It's cold to the touch, his fingers still stained with blood.

"You did everything you could." I give his hand a squeeze. "The doctors can take it from here."

Swallowing hard, Scotty nods, brushes his free thumb over his upper lip, and blows out a breath, his head falling back to the headrest.

He doesn't let go of my hand until we reach the hospital.

* * *

These blue, plasticky chairs are awful. The cell reception is awful. The two-year-old copy of Us Weekly is awful.

This waiting room was the last place I expected to be. I didn't plan on Scotty's union delegate arriving just as the nurse was about to draw his blood, and I certainly didn't expect her to kick us both out of the room so she could talk with Scotty about the shooting. Guess the fact that I was there at the scene, that I'm his partner, didn't mean much.

Of course, the piranhas followed us to the hospital, and Boss has been out there running interference ever since our arrival. He won't give them so much as a crumb, but that won't stop them from circling, their jaws snapping for any bit of information, real or imagined, to quell their relentless appetite.

So now I sit. Restless. Helpless. Useless.

Maybe I should've stayed back to look for the gun.

Heavy footsteps behind me cause me to turn in my seat, the plastic squawking its protest. Jeffries.

"You find the gun?"

Will shakes his head as he walks toward me. "Vera found an open window in the bedroom. Picture on the bookshelf makes us think the shooter has an older brother."

"Who you also can't find."

He confirms my conclusion with a nod. "John called me here to help get Scotty out the back. Keep him away from the-"

"Piranhas," I say, at the same time he says, "sharks."

Despite the situation, Will flashes a brief smile, his white teeth a stark contrast against his coffee-colored skin. "How's Scotty?"

I shrug. "Wouldn't know. His delegate ran me off."

"That her?" Jeffries indicates someone passing in the hallway. That's her, all right. Tall, blonde, fiftyish. I can't remember her name. Gigi or Fifi or something else better suited to a poodle than a person.

"Yeah." I gather my things and start toward Scotty's room. "You comin'?"

Will shakes his head. "I'll see if I can get anything outta the doctors about the other cop. The boy. Scotty'll wanna know."

I smile my thanks and head for Scotty's room, passing the nurse on the way in.

* * *

"Hey," I say with a slight smile as I slip into the exam room. "We good to go?"

"Yeah." Scotty's perched on the exam table, rubbing the spot on his bicep where the nurse just removed the tourniquet. One of those fake peach "flesh" colored bandages that match no one's actual flesh stands sharp against the bronze skin at the crook of his elbow. His hands are clean, the bloodstained shirt nowhere to be seen, leaving him wearing only a white sleeveless undershirt.

In all the years I've been Scotty's partner, I don't think I've ever seen him without a shirt. This is neither the time nor the place to notice such things, but my suddenly ravenous eyes don't seem to care. They feast on his sculpted shoulders, artfully rounded biceps, the broad expanse of his chest...

"The other cops okay?" Scotty's question jolts me back to reality. My cheeks aflame, I risk a glance in his direction, but he's focused on putting his watch back on. It doesn't seem like he's caught me staring.

_That doesn't mean you can _keep_ staring, Rush._

"Dragin's got a broken leg, concussion, some bruised ribs." Why the hell does my voice sound so husky?

"And the other?"

"Name's Shannon McKenna." Jeffries pipes up behind me. "She's fine."

Scotty slides off the exam table, a sudden whiff of spicy aftershave cutting through the smell of leftover rubbing alcohol. "You're here, too? That mean you found the gun?"

"No." Jeffries shakes his head, then glances over his shoulder. "Look, Scotty, it's a circus out there. The press, the brass, Reverend Curtis…"

My stomach gives an uncomfortable twist. The only reason that rabble-rouser would be here is if-

"What, they think this is about race?" Scotty looks thunderstruck. "That I shot the kid because he's black?"

"And of course, IAD is here," Jeffries continues.

Of course.

My partner's jaw clenches. "Well, that didn't take long."

It never does. If the media are piranhas, then IAD are the sharks. One whiff of blood, and they're already circling. Oh, they're going to have a field day with this one.

"Lil and I are gonna take you out the back." Jeffries hands Scotty his coat, and my traitorous eyes insist on a greedy, lingering look as he shrugs into it.

"How's the boy?" Scotty asks.

"Name is Yusef Barre," Jeffries replied. "And he's gonna make it, thanks to you."

My knees turn watery with relief, and Scotty heaves a huge sigh. He looks like a thousand pounds have been lifted from his shoulders.

To keep from staring at those shoulders,_ again_, I force my eyes back toward Will. Something in his expression gives me pause.

"Scotty," Jeffries sounds a little hesitant. "They found one of the bullets in his spine. The doctors don't know what that means yet."

The words slam into me like a slug.

Scotty's head snaps up. He blinks at Jeffries, stunned, his whole frame seeming to sag under the weight of what Will has just told us. "Yeah, they do."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **None of these characters are mine. Ed Tucker, Yusef Barre, and other names you might not recognize are from SVU; I don't own any of them, either.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

**Containing Excessive Aftershave and a Berko Angle**

Early-morning sunshine streams into our lieutenant's office, its brightness forcing me to squint as I take a life-infusing sip of coffee. It was a short night; I didn't get home until almost three, back at the office by nine, and yet those few hours seemed interminable. I tossed and turned, made myself some tea, broke up a fight between the cats, tried to watch an old SVU rerun... if I slept, it wasn't much. A glance around at my colleagues tells me none of them got a whole lot of sleep, either.

"The doctors say Scotty saved the kid's life," Jeffries reports , closing the office door, "but he has a bullet in his spine. Might be paralyzed."

Miller, perched on the edge of Boss's desk, computer open on her lap, makes a sympathetic noise and shakes her head. To her right, Vera pats her shoulder with one hand while taking a bite of a chocolate frosted donut with the other. My heart gives a painful twinge. Was it really just twelve hours ago that we were all together, laughing and celebrating? It seems like a year.

"This kid, Yusef…" Boss rubs a hand over the top of his head, "does he at least have a record?"

Miller's fingers fly over the keys, her diamond ring splitting the sunlight into a thousand tiny prisms. "Minor busts, mostly street peddling without a permit. Native art from Djibouti seems to be his ware of choice."

"But his brother Berko?" Vera continues. "He's the bad apple. Assault, stealin'…"

"Gates says her squad is...familiar with Berko's work." Jeffries takes a sip from a cardboard Starbucks cup.

My own rocket fuel is finally starting to kick in. "So Yusef was workin' for his brother, holdin' the gun, saw the cops, and bolted."

"Problem is," Vera pipes up around a mouthful of donut, "the only person who saw the gun so far was the female uni, McKenna."

"We did a grid search for two blocks, got warrants on the neighbors…nothin'." There's a frustrated edge in Jeffries' normally calm voice.

"So the brother took it," Vera suggests. "Find him, find the gun."

"Yeah, if he's stupid," Miller replies with her trademark withering glare.

"Or we're lucky," Boss counters. "He's a dealer. He has known associates." Our lieutenant's steely gaze flits around the room, landing on each of us in turn. "Put some pressure. Unofficially."

My colleagues nod and start moving toward the door. Jeffries clangs his empty coffee cup into the metal wastebasket as Miller closes her laptop and slides off the desk, then leans over, eyes twinkling with mischief, and takes a large bite of Vera's donut.

"Hey," Vera protests. She smirks at him, and he sighs, shakes his head, and pops the rest of the donut into his mouth. I can't help but smile. Despite all that's going on, Miller and Vera provide a welcome bit of snarky normalcy.

"Want me to track down McKenna, Boss?" I ask as my colleagues filter out of the room. "Or do you want me to work the Berko angle?"

"Neither." Something in his tone stops me cold. His gray eyes focus on something over my left shoulder. Filled with trepidation, I turn.

Through the slats of the blinds on the office window, I see Lieutenant Ed Tucker from IAD standing out in the squad room like a vulture perched on a craggy outcropping. Catching my eye, he offers a tight, almost predatory smile.

Boss pats my shoulder, and I swig the rest of my coffee, lift my chin, and head out to face the music.

* * *

I always thought Scotty wore a little too much aftershave, but after spending a chunk of my morning with Tucker, I'm going to have to revise my definition of "too much." The overpowering muskiness hit me like a slap in the face the second I stepped out of Boss's office, and now, after almost an hour in a too-small meeting room, my eyes are burning and the smell seems permanently lodged in my sinus cavity.

I guess it takes a lot of fragrance to cover up the stink of selling out your fellow cops.

Tucker's glacial blue eyes haven't left mine the entire time we've been in this little room. He's obviously trying to intimidate me, but after almost two decades of going toe-to-toe with hardened criminals, his scare tactics aren't going to work. Neither is that aftershave.

"So you and Detective Valens identified the officers in hot pursuit." Tucker's words are underpinned by the soft, steady tapping of his pen against a yellow legal pad.

"Yes," I reply. "Officer Dragin told us his partner saw that the suspect was armed. Detective Valens joined in pursuit, and I called in the 10-13."

"So _you_ didn't actually see the gun." Tucker's left eyebrow gives a slight twitch.

I square my shoulders and meet his gaze head-on. "No."

"Thank you." Tucker scribbles something on the legal pad, then reaches forward, his finger hovering over the Stop button of the small video recorder on the table between us. I'm not fooled. There's no way we're done yet.

"Oh, wait. One more thing."

Yep. Called it.

"You and Detective Valens attended a party that night, did you not?"

"Yes."

"Did you…happen to see how many drinks Detective Valens had?"

A hot surge of irritation rises in my chest, and I fight to keep my face a cool, emotionless mask. "I wasn't counting, Lieutenant."

"Best guess, Detective."

A sigh escapes my lips. "He had maybe two glasses of scotch over the course of about two hours, and there was plenty of food at the party. When we left, he was _completely_ sober."

Another flick of an eyebrow, then Tucker levels me with his stoniest stare. "They'll ask you that on the stand. Would you say the same thing under oath?"

My mask slips a little bit. On the stand? _Under oath?_

"So Scotty's going to be charged?"

That volley makes Tucker flinch. I can see him backpedaling, the flinty expression faltering just long enough for me to know he hadn't meant for that to slip out.

"That'll be all, Detective Rush." Tucker's leathery fingers almost leap to shut off the recorder and slip his notes into a manila file. "Thank you for your time."

"Yeah. Right." My eyes narrowed, I hurry from the meeting room and shut the door behind me with a bit more force than necessary. It's a victory, beating Tucker at his own game, but celebrating is the furthest thing from my mind.

Boss is waiting for the elevator outside the squad room as I step off. He looks startled for a second when he sees me, then does a quick about-face and falls in step with my angry stride.

"Do I wanna know what happened in there?"

"Tucker let it slip that he wants it to go to trial." I spit the reply out through gritted teeth.

To my surprise, Boss doesn't even blink. "It's not Tucker's call." He steps aside to let me enter the squad room first. "Regime change, Lil. The new mayor's crackin' down on excessive force."

All the emotions I managed to suppress with Tucker explode from my lips. "And their first act is to serve up Scotty's head on a silver platter?"

There's a warning note in Boss's voice as he says my name, and I'm so furious that it takes me a moment to realize why.

Scotty's sitting at his desk, thumbing the screen of his phone, like everything's as normal as can be. Well. Almost. The pallor of his skin and the dark circles beneath his eyes tell me he didn't sleep any better than I did.

What is he still doing here? His interview with Tucker was even earlier than mine was. Why in the world would he want to stick around after that?

"Scotty…" I study him for a second, hoping what I see will lead me to choose the right words. "Are you…sure you wanna be here right now?"

Before he can answer, Miller bustles into the room, laptop at the ready, Vera close behind. "I called him in," she says. "He needs to see this."

Beside me, Boss frowns. "See what?"

"A 'concerned citizen'"—Vera rolls his eyes—"posted the shooting to Eyes on Cops."

The ball of anger in my chest grows bigger and hotter. Eyes on Cops is a website that's popped up in the last couple of years, dedicated to making Philly's finest look as bad as possible.

Avoiding our eyes, Miller places the laptop on the desk, clicks a few keys, and steps back so Scotty can lean on the desk directly in front of the computer. Stepping up to his right, I hazard a glance in his direction. His lips are a tight line; there's a rhythmic twitch in his jaw.

I turn my focus to the screen and immediately feel sick. "Cop Shoots Kid In Cold Blood," it proclaims.

The video itself starts rolling just outside the apartment building. The quality isn't great, but I can find the taxi in the shadows. A split second later, Scotty sprints toward the camera.

From behind the camera, a woman's angry voice pipes up. "He didn't do _nothin'._" Scotty runs right by her, shouting instructions to move out of the way, and disappears into the building.

I toss Miller a confused glance. "There's nothin' there."

"Just wait," she replies. Something in her tone starts a coil of dread in the pit of my stomach.

When I turn back to the screen, the scene has changed to that dingy concrete-block hallway. Scotty's standing at the ready, gun drawn, back to the wall. Over the din of shouted French, McKenna's voice comes in, yelling instructions to drop the gun and kick it away.

There's a barely-perceptible blip in the picture; then, on the video, Scotty yells, "Speak English!"

"Leave that boy alone!" the camerawoman demands. In response, Scotty whirls around and trains his gun on her.

"Back out, _now!" _he orders.

Beside me, Scotty's glaring daggers at the computer, the muscle in his cheek twitching faster and faster, his grip on the desk blanching his knuckles a sickly white.

McKenna's voice, tinny through the laptop's speakers, jerks my attention back to the screen. "Get her out! I'm going in!"

"No, wait," Scotty protests on the video. "Stop!"

But he's cut off by gunshots. A second later, McKenna howls in pain. Shouting for her to stay down, Scotty fires a few rounds. Right about the time I would've burst through the door, the screen fades to black.

"Video's useless after that," Miller mutters.

"Well, before that, it's _bullshit_." Scotty shoves himself off the desk and slams the lid of the computer shut. "What I said was, '_He doesn't_ speak English.' She musta doctored it."

Before I can even process that, a renewed wave of cheap aftershave hits me. Is it just left over from my interview, or is it...

"Valens. I've been lookin' for you."

_Crap._

Boss meets Tucker's glare with one of his own. "My detective has already told you everything he knows."

"Well, here's something he doesn't know." Is it my imagination, or does that IAD jerk sound almost _gleeful?_ "Yusef Barre had no gunshot residue on his hands or his clothing. The only shots fired came from Officer McKenna's gun…and yours, Detective Valens."

_What? _That—that can't be right. My stomach churning, I look up at Scotty, who's blinking rapidly, trying to absorb the bomb Tucker just dropped. When our eyes meet for a moment, I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am: if Yusef didn't fire the gun…then who did?

Tucker arches an eyebrow, his stony stare flitting around the group. "This third gun you and your squad are 'unofficially' looking for?" His words are practically dripping with contempt. "You can stop now. It was never fired."

I'm dumbfounded. "But McKenna was _shot."_

Tucker regards me like he would a fly buzzing around his head. "Yes, she was, Detective…by a ricochet from her own gun. Officer McKenna admitted that her finger was on the trigger when she tripped."

When she _tripped?_

Oh, my God. Beside me, Scotty's shaking his head in disbelief. I can see the pieces slamming together with sickening certainty in his mind just as quickly as they are in my own. McKenna must have seen Yusef with the silvery box of khat, the one Scotty found in the hallway, and in the heat of the moment, assumed it was a gun. But that mistake was hers. We responded according to our training. Didn't we? So how, _how_, could it have gone so horribly wrong?

"Now just wait one minute." Boss's voice has a heated undercurrent I've only heard a couple of times. "Detective Valens believed that a fellow officer had been shot by the doer. He was trying to save her _life_."

Tucker lifts one broad shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. I want to kick him.

"Maybe," he responds coolly. "But Officer McKenna is refusing to cooperate in any way."

Great. Scotty risks his life to save hers, and _this_ is the thanks he gets?

Tucker acts like he's about to turn around and leave, then pauses. "Oh, and one more thing,"

My eyes narrow. He really needs to learn some new tactics.

"Detective Valens had a blood alcohol content of .049…almost two hours after the shooting."

My stomach stops churning, pauses for a moment almost as though it's as stunned as I am, then plummets to my shoes.

"As you are no doubt aware, the legal limit for impairment is .05." I'm not imagining a damn thing. Tucker's definitely enjoying this. "Which means, Detective Valens, that you were almost certainly impaired when the shooting occurred."

This is bullshit. Pure and utter _bullshit._ Regardless of what the blood test revealed, my partner wasn't _impaired_. If anyone around here knows 'impaired,' it's me. I spent my entire childhood around 'impaired.' Scotty didn't show even the barest trace of it.

"As a courtesy," Tucker is saying, "you'll have until nine AM tomorrow morning to turn yourself in."

Beside me, I hear Miller gasp. Vera, with a murderous glance at Tucker, slips a protective arm around her. All I can do is stare open-mouthed, the room whirling around me.

"Wait," Boss protests. "You're arresting him before he's even indicted? This is a _farce_."

But Tucker doesn't respond. He merely holds his hand out for Scotty's badge. "Better get your affairs in order, Detective."

I can't remember ever feeling so helpless. Scotty's always had my back…and now, when he so desperately needs someone to have his, all I can do is stand there and watch as he glares at some distant point above Tucker's head and fishes his badge from his belt.

Rather than give Tucker the satisfaction of taking the badge directly from him, though, Scotty tosses it onto a nearby desk. It spins around a time or two, then stops, its pristine surface gleaming almost defiantly in the squad room's fluorescent lights.

My eyes burning with frustrated tears, I call after my partner, but he's already grabbing his coat from the back of his chair and storming out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks for the encouragement, everyone! I'm so glad to know there are still Cold Case fans out there!

Disclaimer: Still not mine, but I'm having a lot of fun playing with them!

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**Containing a Punching Bag, a Softball Bat, and Taylor Swift**

The next morning, under a sullen gray sky, my phone trills with news of a case. Excavation at the quarry has unearthed a body buried there since at least the mid 1960s.

Selfishly, I'm relieved. I'd planned to go to Scotty's arraignment, but the idea of my friend, my partner, my—my _Scotty, _in front of a judge? Being treated like a common criminal? That was too painful for me to even think about, let alone witness. Nick and Will offered to go in my stead, with Will promising to keep me updated. I could've kissed them.

Feeling guilty, though, I shoot Scotty a quick text while Miller drives us to the scene. _Can't make it this AM. Caught a case. Good luck._

A minute later, the phone buzzes with his reply. _K, thx._

I stare at the screen for what feels like an eternity, puzzling over all the possible inflections and meanings and ramifications of those four terse little letters. '_K, thx'?!_' Even for a man not given to wordy texts, this is astonishingly short. What could it mean? Is he angry that I'm not there? Disappointed, but understanding? Relieved that I won't be there to see his perp walk? Completely indifferent?

And…why the hell do I care so much?

"Earth to Rush," Miller says from the driver's seat. "Everything okay?"

Startled, I slip my phone back into my coat pocket and offer what I hope is a convincing smile. "Yeah. Fine."

Miller levels me with her trademark withering stare as she exits the freeway. "Oh, please. Your partner's bein' arraigned in ten minutes, and you're_ fine_? Don't give me that crap."

A quiet sigh escapes my lips. "I'll just be glad when it's over."

"Yeah." Kat's expression softens. "Me too."

We reach the quarry right at 9:00, the same time Scotty's arraignment is scheduled to begin. Dread sits like cement in my gut; my heart pounds like a jackhammer. Frannie's getting us up to speed on what they've learned so far, and all I can do is hope my mouth is formulating intelligent responses without the assistance of my brain, which seems incapable of focusing on anything except the lead-like lump in my pocket that serves as my only connection with what's going on in the courtroom. The phone's silence is so deafening that I can't keep from taking it out every so often just to make absolutely _sure _it's working.

"Girl," Miller mutters to my right, "you are actin' like Veronica the day Taylor Swift tickets went on sale."

My cheeks growing warm, I avoid her penetrating stare, banish my phone to my pocket, and try like hell to follow what Frannie is saying.

A few moments later, just after the victim's remains have been loaded into the coroner's van for transport, my phone buzzes for real, and I nearly jump out of my skin. My heart racing, I wrest the phone from my pocket, flit a suddenly-shaky finger across the screen to open the text…

…and just stare.

_Judge says charges are too serious for ROR. Bail at 25K. _

"_What_?!" Miller exclaims from a few feet away, and I tear my attention from my phone to see her staring, open-mouthed, at her own.

After a moment, she recovers and shakes her head. "Nicky's fat fingers and those tiny little keys? That's gotta be a typo."

My stomach plummets. "The $25,000?"

"So you got the same text." Miller looks crushed. Not trusting myself to speak, I merely nod.

Her eyes sparking, Kat stabs the button on her phone and jams it back into her pocket. "That's _bullshit_."

Frustration sears my chest and burns my eyes with tears. All Scotty was doing was trying to help. That's all he's ever wanted to do. He followed his training, he responded to a perceived threat…and now, unless he can come up with twenty-five grand, my partner will be spending tonight in jail. Tonight, tomorrow night, and God alone knows how many more.

A hot tear escapes, mingling with the icy cold drops of rain that have just started to fall. Angrily, I swipe at my face and storm back to the car.

* * *

I've been staring at the number on Scotty's apartment door for so long that it's practically tattooed onto my retinas. I left work half an hour ago, made the short drive here, and have been standing in the hallway ever since, my stomach a macramé of knots, trying to work up the nerve to knock.

Angry-sounding rock music has been bleeding out into the hallway for the last few minutes, so I know he's home. Boss says he made bail, news that rendered me weak-kneed with relief, but I have no idea where my partner came up with that kind of money.

I also have no idea what kind of reception I'll get from him, or if he'll even answer the door. I tried calling him earlier, sent a text or two, but the only communication I've had from him all day was that terse, four-letter text before his arraignment started. Since then, silence.

He's only shut me out like this one other time, and that was after Elisa died. Back then, I was willing to let it slide, but now, I just…need to see him. I need to tell him, face to face, that I've still got his back, that nothing will change what we have, no matter what.

Not like he hasn't done the same for me.

Remembering my mission gives me the extra ounce of courage I need to square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and give a few quick raps to the back of the door.

I guess I'm a little surprised when, after a few seconds, the music shuts off. A couple seconds more, and I hear footsteps approaching. There's a pregnant pause, one in which I sense my partner gathering himself much as I did a moment ago. Then the locks click and the door opens to reveal Scotty, wearing a pair of track pants and a faded Phillies T-shirt. His skin is glazed with sweat, his expression guarded, although I'm relieved that it relaxes a bit when he sees me.

"Hey," I say softly.

"Hey." He sound a little winded. "C'mon in." Turning away from the door, he tears a pair of black fingerless boxing gloves from his hands and tosses them to the floor next to a heavy crimson punching bag.

My eyes widen as I take in the scene. His usually neat apartment is littered with newspapers and a handful of fast-food containers. A couple of beer bottles perch amid the clutter on his coffee table, which, like the rest of his furniture, has been shoved haphazardly against the wall. A jump rope and a few hand weights are scattered on the floor; the TV, tuned to one of those ever-present talking-head sports shows, flickers mutely in the far corner.

Plucking a ratty gray hoodie from the back of the couch, Scotty yanks it over his head, then turns to face me, his lips quirked in a sardonic smile. "Y'know, I'd offer you a drink, but they might say you're _impaired."_

I tilt my head to the side. "How are you, Scotty?" _Really, Rush? _

"Oh, I'm _great_," comes the sarcastic reply. "Never better. I'm front-page news in not one, not two, but _three _different papers"—he indicates the pile on the coffee table—"_and_ I had to put the Mustang up as collateral to make bail." He trails off with an uncomfortable laugh, the one he always uses to try and cover up how close to breaking down he really is. "On the plus side, I don't gotta be someone's bitch in jail tonight, so I guess I got that goin' for me."

"Scotty, I'm so sorry..."

"Don't." He holds up a hand. "I don't need your _pity_, Lil."

"It's not pity, it's-"

"It's my fault, okay? I'm the one who screwed up."

"How?" I fling my arms wide. "You did everything right!"

"Yeah, and now a fourteen-year-old boy's never gonna walk again." Emotion tatters his words and brings a brilliant sheen to his eyes. "I paralyzed a _child_, Lil. How the hell is that 'doin' everything right?'"

"Scotty, you're a good cop. You did what we're all trained to do." My chest burns with frustrated anger. "McKenna's the one who screwed up. She rushed the suspect! Tripped over her own gun!"

"But it ain't McKenna they're goin' after, is it? 'Cause McKenna ain't the one who shot an innocent kid!" He drags a hand through his hair.

"It's...it's bigger than this." My conversation with Boss from earlier flits through my head, underpinned with a sense of trepidation. I'm not sure whether it's a good idea to tell Scotty what I know, but I'm so desperate to yank him out of the black hole of self-flagellation that I'm willing to take the risk.

His head jerks up, flashing eyes now locked on mine. "Bigger? How? Hmm? How can it possibly be bigger than _this_?"

"Boss says the new mayor's cracking down on excessive force." My suddenly cottony mouth struggles to get the words out. "They want a poster boy, someone they can hang out to dry. It coulda been _anyone."_

"But it ain't just anyone, is it, Lil?" He grabs one of the newspapers from his coffee table and holds it up for me to see.

A grainy photo of the scene, probably a still from that damned Eyes on Cops video, covers the entire front page, with Scotty's official police photo superimposed over the lower right-hand corner. The banner headline screams it all. "Drunk Cop Cripples Kid."

"They want a poster boy?" He swallows hard, and the pain shimmering in his eyes is more than I can bear to look at. "Well, looks like they found one."

"Scotty, that's just the tabloid."

"Yeah?" Another bitter bark of laughter. "Well, the Inquirer ain't much better."

He's just turned to retrieve another paper when the crack of gunfire and shattering of glass send me diving to the floor. A split second later, Scotty's on top of me, and we huddle there, waiting in strained silence.

After a long, breathless moment, we dare to sit up. Scotty picks a couple shards of glass from my hair and pings them to the floor, then pulls me to his chest. I can feel the frantic pounding of his heart even through the thick fabric of his shirt.

"Y'okay, Lil? Y'okay?" His voice is as shaky as the hand that races through my hair, searching for additional glass.

Am I? My limbs are trembling, my heart is hammering, and there's a metallic taste in my mouth…but I'm still in full control. The flashback I expect to have never comes. Deep down where it counts, I really am okay. I guess all those hours on my therapist's couch have done some good after all.

"Yeah, Scotty. Yeah, I'm okay."

"Oh, thank God." The relieved sigh shudders through his whole frame.

I lift my head and pull back to look at him. "Are _you_ okay?"

He doesn't answer. But the swirl of emotions in his eyes, the twitch of his lips, and the tightly clenched jaw tell me all I need to know. Physically, he's fine. Otherwise, well…that's another story.

A gust of frigid air comes through the shattered window, sending the scattered shards skittering across the hardwood floor, the sheaf of newspapers fluttering to and fro. The cold air clicks my brain back into cop mode. Whoever shot at us might still be out there. We have to go chase them down. We have to...

No. Not _we_.

Scotty seems to have come to this realization at the same moment I have; his hand freezes over the spot where his gun usually sits holstered at his hip. We lock eyes for a moment, his glinting with something dark and dangerous, and then he bolts for the bedroom, muttering to himself in Spanish. I don't know what he's doing, and I don't have the time to wonder.

Momentarily dismissing him from my mind, I yank my phone from my pocket and call for backup. This done, I draw my gun, sneak along the perimeter of the room, take half a second to collect myself, and gently climb out what's left of the window.

From the fire escape, I scan the streets below, where three shadowy figures walk away from me, their feigned casualness evident even from my vantage point.

As soon as I identify myself, they try to scatter, and I scurry down the fire escape after them. When a backup squad car squeals to a stop half a block away, one of them tosses something away and takes off running, while the other two freeze at the realization that they're trapped.

One of the backup officers jumps from his car, and I yell at him to follow the runner while I train my gun on the twenty-something, cocky-looking pair of black men in front of me.

"Don't move!" I order. "You two keep your hands where I can see 'em."

Dutifully, they raise their hands, but I can tell by their demeanor they're not nearly as afraid of me as they should be.

"Y'all gonna shoot us, too?" the one on the left asks. He's clad in a black puffy overcoat and a Yankees baseball cap, while the one on the right wears a ski cap, a red jacket, and a blue bandanna around his neck.

"Hands where I can see 'em," I repeat, looking from one to the other and back again. "Now, you wanna tell me what happened?"

"Nothin'," Yankees Cap replies. "It's just a quiet night."

Defiance sparks in Red Jacket's eyes. "Yeah, we didn't see _nothin'._"

"Oh, keep talkin'! _Keep talkin'!"_

I don't have to turn around to know who that voice belongs to, but I'm so startled that I do anyway, careful to keep my gun on the suspects. Sure enough, Scotty's storming toward us, with—oh, God, is that a _softball bat_ in his hands?

He looks like a bull about to charge, and Yankees Cap is stupid enough to wave a red cape. "Maybe someone saw _you_ wit' a gun."

Swearing viciously, Scotty lunges toward them, bat at the ready. I slam into him with my shoulder, desperate to stop him before this gets any more ridiculous than it already is.

"Scotty, I've got this_. _Back up!_"_

"Do ya?" He turns a venomous glare on me. "Then cuff 'em! _Now!"_

"_Back up!"_

"Yeah, you heard your girlfriend," Yankees Cap pipes up. "Go inside."

I can't remember ever being so furious. With them. With him. With the whole damn situation. But one of us needs to be calm and level-headed right now, and it sure as hell isn't going to be Scotty. He's waving the bat in the air, pointing it first at Red Jacket, then at Yankees Cap.

"Where's the gun?" he demands.

"Scotty..."

"You sure there _was _a gun?" Red Jacket retorts with an arrogant smirk. "Maybe you were just _imaginin'_ it."

"Hey, you wanna shoot me, do it like a man," Scotty challenges. "Shootin' blind through the window, that's just chickenshit."

"_Scotty..."_

He's either so furious he can't hear me, or he's choosing to ignore me. Spreading his arms wide, he offers his chest as a target. "Go ahead! I'm standin' right here."

In Academy, I heard over and over that what I'd notice most on the streets was how fast everything can happen. That warning comes to mind as all three of them start talking over each other, Scotty once again brandishing the bat. There's a cacophony of shouting and cursing and then the whiff of the bat through the air just a couple inches above Yankees Cap's head. He blinks in surprise, and the look in Scotty's glittering black eyes tell me he missed on purpose. But I'm just as certain that next time, he won't.

Shifting my gun to my left hand, I grab at my partner with my right. I only manage to catch a fistful of his sweatshirt, but it's enough. With a strength I didn't know I possessed, I haul him out from between me and the suspects and send him hurtling toward the squad car that's just pulled up behind me.

"Goddammit, Valens, I said _step back!"_

My gun is still on the suspects, but my focus is on Scotty. We stand there glaring at one another for a moment. His eyes are flashing fire, he's breathing hard, and he's gripping the bat so tightly his knuckles are turning white.

I want to _scream_ at him. To throw him onto the hood of the car and tell him what a complete and utter idiot he's being, how he's throwing fuel on the already-raging inferno of his crisis, how he's making a laughingstock of himself and me and the whole department…

…but I don't. Because his fiery fury is just a cover for the ocean of pain that's threatening to swallow him up. That pain is calling the shots right now. Not my partner.

"Put the bat down," a comparatively calm voice orders behind us. I turn around to see two uniforms flanking us, weapons at the ready, though they don't look entirely certain whether to point them at the two suspects or at us.

"It's okay." I show them my hands. "We're on the job."

"On the job," Scotty echoes.

"Wit' a _bat?!" _Red Jacket sounds incredulous. "Y'all hit us, that's police brutality."

My partner's grip on the bat tightens.

I shoot him a warning glance. "Scotty..."

A dark glare flickers in my direction, then he turns and vents his rage with a home run swing to a nearby garbage can. It goes airborne for a couple seconds, the lid flying off and contents scattering everywhere, then clatters to the pavement and limps to a stop, nearly doubled in half from the dent Scotty inflicted.

It's then that I notice that a small crowd has gathered like birds on a wire, twittering amongst themselves as they hold cell phones aloft, gleefully recording the whole embarrassing scene.

I stifle a sigh. Eyes On Cops is gonna_ love_ this one.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

**Containing a Really Comfortable Couch**

An hour later, what seems like half of PPD swarms Scotty's living room like flies on roadkill. CSUs mingle with uniforms, the squawk of radios and flash of cameras punctuating their muffled conversations. I wince as they pick through the scattered newspapers, all emblazoned with Scotty's picture on the front page. Hasn't he been laid bare enough already?

Boss got here a few minutes ago; right now, he's stationed in the quietest corner he can find, his phone to one ear, his finger in the other.

Having already given my statement, I'm technically free to go, but I'm not going anywhere. For now, I'm perched on one of the barstools in Scotty's kitchen. He's opposite me, leaning on the counter, staring at his loosely folded hands as though they've got all the answers he's looking for. I wish there was something I could say, something I could do, but I haven't been able to come up with anything, so I hope that maybe just being here…maybe that'll be enough.

"Okay, thanks." Boss says behind me, and I turn to see him flipping his phone closed as he joins us in the kitchen. "They found a .45 in the sewer grate down the block. They're bringin' two of the three kids in."

Scotty's shoulders lift in an apathetic shrug. "What's the point?"

_What's the point?_ Any cop knows this. "If the slug is a match..."

"...then the shooter got away and wiped the prints."

Boss looks like he's about to respond to Scotty's cynical conclusion when his attention shifts to something behind me. Eyes narrowed, he takes a step into the living room. "Hey, we've got this."

The steely edge in his voice sends a shiver up my spine. There's only one person I've known him to use that tone with. Sure enough, Lieutenant Tucker is meandering through the door, as casual and nonchalant as if he were perusing a rack of cheap suits on clearance.

"Oh, you're here, now, too?" Scotty shoves himself off the counter and strides into the living room, arms spread in a mocking gesture of welcome. "Great, everyone made it! Let's get this party started!" He turns to the uniform stationed closest to his stereo. "Hey, crank up some tunes, willya?"

My heart aches for him. "Scotty…"

"So's this gone viral already?" There's a sardonic glint in my partner's eyes as he turns toward Tucker. "Is that what you do all night? Sittin' there with your laptop and a bag of Doritos, watchin' Eyes on Cops to see who shows up next?"

"Scotty, _stop._" I slide off the stool and place a hand on his shoulder, but he shakes it off.

"Or maybe you _ain't _watchin' online. Maybe you're just sittin' outside my house, waitin' for me to make a mistake so you can pounce! Hey, maybe _you're_ the one who posted the video in the first place!"

"_Detective Valens_." Boss's voice slices through the din. "Enough."

Tucker, for his part, doesn't even blink in the face of Scotty's tirade. "There was a 10-13 at your address. I'm required to investigate the incident."

"They shot through my window!" Scotty storms out of the kitchen and points to the three closely-spaced bullet holes in his living room wall, his eyes flashing with fury and something else I can't quite identify. "See this? That's right where Lil and I were standin'. Those bastards coulda killed us both!"

"I appreciate your anger, Detective." Tucker's reply is remarkably quiet, and I didn't know better, I'd have almost detected a hint of sympathy. "But you can't go after civilians with a softball bat."

"Oh, but they can shoot at me? At _us?_"

I'm about to intervene, but Boss beats me to it. "Tucker, would you give us a minute?"

The two lieutenants stare at one another for a long moment, and then Tucker nods and turns back the way he came. Halfway between the kitchen and the door, though, he pauses.

"Valens."

My partner freezes, then turns to face Tucker, his eyebrows arched in silent challenge.

"For what it's worth? I would've done the same thing you did. Or worse."

I'm so stunned I almost fall over. Glory be, the man _does _have a soul.

Tucker disappears through the door, and I turn back to see Boss with his hand on Scotty's shoulder. "C'mon, pal. We gotta get you outta here."

My partner's brows flicker toward one another. "No, I'm good here."

I take a step closer to him. "Scotty, your window is nonexistent, and you're…" _Unarmed. And unstable. _I trail off with a shake of my head. I'm not about to say that out loud. _"_Why don't you…come home with me?"

He looks as surprised to hear the words as I am to have said them. His dark eyes dart from me to Boss and back again. "Look, I—I'm fine. I can just put a trash bag or somethin' over the window, and-"

"Scotty." Boss peers at my partner over the rims of his glasses. "You can't stay here."

"I might be able to talk the cats out of the day bed," a nervous smile tugs at my lips, "but if I can't, I've got a really comfortable couch."

Scotty rakes a tense hand through his hair. "Lil, you've already been through enough tonight 'cause of me. I don't wanna cause you any more trouble."

I catch his gaze and hold it fast, and in the depths of his eyes, I see the fight starting to bleed out of him. His fury is spent, _he's _spent, and when the last of his anger dissolves, he'll be left with nothing but the pain it's been covering. I can't let him face that alone.

"Scotty… _please."_

_Please stop trying to pretend you're fine. Please stop trying to bear this weight all on your own. _

_Please give me a chance to do for you what you've always, always done for me._

After a long moment, he breathes a deep sigh of release and surrender.

"Yeah, okay. Just…lemme grab a suitcase."

* * *

"I asked the cats about the day bed," I tell Scotty as I descend the creaky stairs, peering around an armful of blankets and an extra pillow I scrounged up from the hall closet. "No dice, I'm afraid."

I'm hoping for a chuckle, a grin, a—a _something _from him to let me know he's still in there. From the moment he returned from his bedroom with his hastily-packed suitcase, my partner's eyes have been as dark and lifeless as two pieces of charcoal. He barely spoke in the car on the way here, didn't insist on driving the way he usually does. He just sat there, staring off into space, his thoughts locked somewhere deep inside. The irony wasn't lost on me as I drove through the darkened streets, the heavy silence broken only by the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers. Usually I'm the one locked away, and he's the one trying to peek in.

I'm disappointed, but not surprised, when he doesn't even crack a smile.

"Couch is fine, Lil."

Fluffing the pillow, I place it at one end of the couch, then start to tuck one of the blankets around the couch cushions as a makeshift sheet. "Well, at least let me-"

Gently, Scotty takes the blanket from my hands. "I'll do it."

"You sure?"

With a barely perceptible nod, he tosses the blanket over the back of the couch, then sinks down onto the cushions, as though pressed there by the sheer weight of all he's carrying.

"If you're hungry, I could probably come up with a PB & J or somethin'." I offer. "Or maybe we could—"

"I'm fine, Lil."

"How about a cup of tea?"

"I'm _fine_."

The silence between us is thick and awkward. It feels wrong to leave him like this, to abandon my partner in his darkest hour, but if he's anything like me, that's exactly what he wants right now.

With great reluctance, I cross the living room and pause at the bottom of the stairs. "If you need anything—_anything-_ you let me know."

"'Kay." That single syllable sounds like it cost him everything.

Leaning my forehead against the cool frame of the stairwell, I take just a minute to try and absorb the myriad of events my day held. The arraignment, the case, the gunshots, the bat. It seems that this brief hesitation is all I need for the bone-deep exhaustion to catch up with me. The staircase suddenly seems like a mountain, and it takes a long moment to gather my strength and begin my ascent.

"After you were shot…"

I freeze, the creak of the second step serving as punctuation for Scotty's aborted question. My shooting during the Jacobi case is on the short list of things we just don't talk about. I don't know why, exactly, especially since now, looking back, I can pinpoint that as the start of a subtle shift in the way my partner acted around me. God knows I've talked about it enough with my shrink, and it seems like something Scotty and I should've discussed at some point beyond _Thanks for what you did _and _As long as you don't make me do it again_, but for whatever reason, neither of us has ever broached the subject.

The way he cut the question off in the middle makes me think he's remembered that fact. I'm still motionless on the stairway, my foot poised to take another step.

My partner clears his throat. "After you were shot, did you ever…y'know…think about not comin' back? Did you ever…try to picture life without your badge?"

Those seemingly endless days of recovery and rehab float through my mind in a continuous reel. Most of the time, what drove me to take the next step, to get out of bed every morning, was that I was one day closer to getting my life back; one day closer to getting back to doing what I was made to do. But there were some dark moments. Moments when I wondered if I'd ever be healed enough to draw my gun, to hear one fired without having a panic attack. Moments when I tried to picture myself doing something else.

"Yeah, I thought about it a time or two. What I might do instead."

I hazard a glance over my shoulder. Scotty doesn't seem to have the energy to speak, but his slightly raised eyebrows give me leave to continue.

"Never did come up with anything."

"Yeah." One corner of Scotty's mouth twitches in a shadow of a smile.

Turning to face him, I lean against the wall of the stairs. "Y'know, I think as god-awful as this job is sometimes…it's the only thing in the world I'm good at. The only thing I can ever see myself doing."

Scotty closes his eyes for a moment, his jaw working. Suddenly, I know why he's asked me this question; I can sense the locomotive of his pessimism gathering speed.

"Scotty, you're gonna beat this thing."

His eyes fly open, their bottomless depths sparking as much of a challenge as he can muster. "And what if I don't, Lil?"

If I squint, I can almost see his question hanging there, floating above us, like a speech bubble in a newspaper cartoon. I'd love to grab that thing by the tail and fling it out of here, but I can't for the life of me think how.

"It's all I ever wanted to be, y'know?" He laughs, that hollow, nervous laugh, and swipes at the corner of his eye. "Four years old, I get lost at a street fair. I prob'ly didn't wander around too long, but it felt like forever, and the next thing I know, this cop is wipin' my tears and buyin' me a hot dog, and then he takes me right to my mom. I'm sure they prob'ly paged her or somethin', but when he just…took me right to her?" Scotty breaks off and shakes his head. "I thought he was some kinda superhero. That was all it took."

"So hold on to that, Scotty. That's how I made it back."

His only reply is an exhausted attempt at a grin. In all the years we've worked together, all the all-nighters we've pulled, I don't think I've ever seen Scotty Valens look this tired. It's…well…_adorable _isn't really the right word, but it's the only one that springs to mind.

The stair creaks again as I shift my weight and start toward my bedroom. "Get some sleep." Over my shoulder, I offer him what I hope is a reassuring smile. "Maybe it'll look brighter in the morning."

"Yeah. Maybe." He reaches for the discarded blanket, flings it halfheartedly over his legs, and sinks down onto the pillow. "G'night, Lil."

"'Night, Scotty."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer**:Nope. Not mine. I can't even claim the recipe.

* * *

**Chapter Six**

**Containing Black Beans, Lilly's Cats, and Unexpected Coffee**

The irritating buzz of my alarm clock drags me out of a restless, troubled sleep, although the bleary-eyed early-morning fog makes it impossible to remember why. My hand gropes for the snooze button, finds it, and gives it a weary smack.

Forcing my gritty eyes open, I peer at the black-and-white photo of the aspiring astrophysicist whose body was found at the quarry. Is he the reason I didn't sleep well? While Eldon Hooper definitely wouldn't be the first victim to invade my slumber, my gut tells me that, this time, my unrest has nothing to do with the case.

The alarm clock buzzes a second time, sounding louder and even more insistent, though this could just be my imagination. With a yawn, I swat it into silence, then ease my feet out from beneath a still-unconscious Olivia, poke my arms into the cozy blue crocheted cardigan that has served as my robe for as long as I can remember, and stumble downstairs for some coffee. I can remember, barely, a time when I didn't need a cup and a half just to function. But those days are long gone.

About halfway down the stairs, a whiff of the life-giving brew perks me up a little.

Funny, though, I don't remember setting the delay function on the coffee maker last night. Actually, I don't remember much of anything from last night. What did I even do? Was I working late on the Hooper job? Did I-

My question dies unformed when I enter the kitchen to see Scotty standing near the coffee maker, the bottle of creamer open on the counter, the clacking of the spoon against the edges of a plastic travel mug shattering the pre-dawn silence.

He glances up and tosses me a lopsided grin. "Mornin', sunshine."

"Morning, Scotty." At least now I remember why I didn't sleep well.

My detective antennae quivering as best they can in my groggy state, I give my partner the once-over. He's still wearing the gray hoodie; in fact, it doesn't really look like he ever took it off. His dark hair is disheveled, his jaw shadowed with stubble. His eyes are still espresso-colored pools of swirling emotions, but there's a determined glint in their depths that was missing last night. A glint I can't quite explain, especially not without coffee.

As though reading my thoughts, Scotty grabs a second mug from the cupboard. My favorite mug, in fact, though I doubt there's any way he'd know that. Quickly, he fills it with coffee and holds it out to me.

"Thanks." My fingertips brush against his as I take the mug from him.

"No problem." He takes an experimental sip of his coffee, then pours a little more creamer into it and resumes stirring. "I was up early, figured it was the least I could do."

The energetic bounce he's put into his voice doesn't fool me for a second. "Didn't sleep, huh?"

"Nope."

"Sorry about the couch."

Setting the spoon in the sink, Scotty lifts one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. "Ain't the couch, Lil, I just…didn't sleep."

"Maybe tonight." I offer him what I hope is an encouraging smile.

"Yeah. Maybe." There's a soft _thwup _as he pops the lid onto the travel mug. "In the meantime, I'm gonna go hit the gym. And _you _are off to work. People shouldn't be forgotten and all that."

Before I can even blink, he's out of the kitchen, grabbing a duffel bag off the floor in front of the sofa and plopping a Sixers cap backwards onto his head. A moment later, the front door opens and shuts, and I'm left staring into my steaming mug of coffee, wondering if it can tell me whether what I just witnessed was real…or just a really, _really _strange dream.

* * *

The frigid February air is a stinging slap to my face as I leave the relative shelter of the train station that evening and scurry the three blocks to my house. The heavy clouds, apparently no longer content with merely one type of precipitation, fling down a disheartening assortment of rain, sleet, and snow. A churlish wind tosses it too and fro, almost seeming to laugh at my additional discomfort.

The weather matches my mood. It was a long day at work, as usual, but the fact that Scotty wasn't there made it feel even longer. I can't count how many times my eyes found their way to his empty desk. The stacks of papers, the empty coffee mug, his favorite pen lying just above where his right hand would be, all looked as though he'd just stepped out for an interview or maybe a hot dog from the cart out front. Talking to possible suspects wasn't the distraction I'd hoped it'd be, either. Even when my partner isn't physically with me, just knowing he's there _somewhere_, making his own contribution in the search for justice, knowing we're in this together, energizes me. Today, despite countless cups of coffee, I just dragged.

And the grand jury subpoena I received this afternoon didn't help. Oh, I knew I'd have to testify; I was a witness, after all. But that solemn-looking sheet of paper cemented the fact that Scotty's legal journey is just beginning. He could be gone for weeks, months…

I can't let myself think beyond that.

Approaching my house, I'm surprised to see lights on. Normally, I come home to darkness and a faint, although not unpleasant, musty smell, the product of it being closed and occupied only by my cats for most of the day.

When I open the door tonight, though, a wall of warm, fragrant air greets me. Loud Latin-sounding music streams in from the kitchen. The cats, normally stationed on the living room couch awaiting my return, are nowhere to be seen.

My brow furrowed, I place my keys on the little table just inside the door.

"Scotty?"

He doesn't answer. My frown deepening by the second, I make my way through the living room to the kitchen, where I just stop and stare.

Scotty's standing at the stove, stirring a steaming pot of something that smells like heaven, his face slightly flushed and glowing from the heat. Olivia, my orange tabby, is perched behind him on the kitchen counter, devouring what looks like bits of crumbled bacon. My white cat, Stella, is winding her way around Scotty's ankles, her toenails clacking on the tile floor in an odd rhythmic counterpoint to the music pouring from the little radio I keep in the kitchen but never remember to use.

Scotty's...in my kitchen? _Cooking?_

It's official. My partner has lost it.

"Don't worry, three-legs, I didn't forget about you." Scotty grabs a small bowl from the counter, crumbles some bacon into it, and places it on the floor a few feet from Stella, who eagerly clicks her way over.

Turning back to the stove, he flashes me a grin. "Oh, hey, Lil!"

"Hi, Scotty." My tone is one I usually reserve for addressing those witnesses we get sometimes who are a few fries short of a Happy Meal. "What—what's all this?"

While still stirring that exotic-smelling deliciousness with his right hand, he reaches out with his left to turn the music down. "Dinner. Hope you're hungry."

I wasn't, especially…until I walked through my front door.

Slowly, I slip out of my coat, then slide onto one of the stools at the counter. Olivia glares at me out of her one good eye, but when she seems to realize I'm no threat to her dinner, she settles back down on her haunches and resumes eating.

Amid the sizzling sounds from the stove comes the pop of a cork, and a moment later, a glass of red wine appears in front of me. I can't help but be impressed.

"Are—are we celebrating something?" My mind flits through the possibilities. Scotty's definitely not okay_, _it's far too soon for that…but the exhausted, defeated attitude from last night appears to be gone. He seems…settled. Determined. _Better._

"Nah." Scotty bangs the spoon on the edge of the pan a couple times, then sets it onto a plate next to the stove. "Just…felt like cookin'."

My partner's back is to me, so I can't read his expression, but I find myself studying him anyway. His broad shoulders bunch and ripple beneath a plaid flannel shirt, the sort of thing I thought died with Kurt Cobain, but Scotty makes it work. It's paired with a tight-fitting T-shirt and a well-worn pair of jeans. I—I don't think I've ever seen him wear jeans before.

Heat creeps into my cheeks as I study him over the rim of my wineglass. He looks really, _really _good in jeans.

Scotty turns toward me and starts to rummage through a paper grocery bag. I avert my eyes, but apparently not quickly enough, because I hear a soft chuckle.

"What? You surprised I know how to do more than just make coffee?"

Well, that's not _quite _the reason I'm ogling him, but…sure. We'll go with that.

"A little." I flash him a small smile.

From the depths of the bag, Scotty retrieves a small can of something I don't recognize. His eyes dart around the kitchen for a second, then he glances up at me with a boyish grin. "Don't suppose you got a can opener somewhere."

"Next to the sink," I reply. "Second drawer down."

After a few seconds' fumbling in the drawer, he retrieves a can opener with a quiet "aha," hooks it up to the little can, and deftly turns the knob. His sleeves are rolled up almost to his elbows, giving me a front-row seat to the corded muscles in his forearms and his long, nimble fingers. I'm blushing again.

"Well, before you get too impressed," he leans over the sink and drains the liquid out of the can, "you should know that this is one of two things I know how to make."

"Yeah?" I can't help but smile, the first genuine smile I've felt cross my lips in what feels like years. "So what's the other? Filet mignon?"

He laughs. "You wish."

"Mac and cheese?"

"Nah." He tosses me a grin over his shoulder as he turns toward the stove. "Pancakes."

Laughter bubbles to the surface. "You would not believe the number of charred batches of pancakes this kitchen has seen."

"Yeah, I kinda figured you didn't cook much once I poked around in your fridge a little bit." The sizzling in the pan grows louder as Scotty adds the contents of the can. "You don't mind, do ya?"

As a matter of fact...no...I don't. The evening's initial awkwardness, a product of sheer astonishment, has quickly melted into warm, cozy companionship. I'm not used to coming home to…well, much of anything except a musty house and a pair of yowling cats. This...the dinner, the conversation, the presence of one of my favorite people…it's almost enough to bring tears to my eyes.

"No." I sound almost wistful. "No, I don't mind, Scotty. Make yourself at home."

Turning toward me, Scotty grabs a little foil packet from a box on the counter. "Well, I'll be outta your hair by the end of the week."

I pause, my wineglass halfway to my lips. "Landlord gettin' the window fixed?"

"Yeah…somethin' like that." Scotty flicks the little foil packet with a finger and doesn't meet my eyes.

Something in his voice gives me pause, and I set my glass down. "Scotty, please don't feel like you stayin' here is-is a burden or somethin'. It's the least I could do after-"

"We're not gonna talk about that, okay?" His eyes flash a warning. "Not tonight."

"Fine by me." I swig some more wine, delicious wine, I might add, and force some brightness back into my voice. "So…how was your day?"

"It was pretty okay." He's turned back to the stove and added whatever was in that packet to the sizzling contents of the skillet. "Hit the gym, watched some hockey, met with my attorney…"

A grin crosses my face. "But I bet we're not talkin' about that, either."

Scotty removes the lid from a pot on the back of the stove and sets it on the counter. "Nope."

My detective antennae are going _crazy_. There is something going on with him, something more than just the aftermath of the last few days. There's something he's not telling me.

But my churning thoughts grind to a halt when a plate appears on the counter in front of me, covered in beans and rice and—and I'm not even sure what all, nor do I care, because it smells _unbelievable. _

"Scotty, this looks amazing."

"Thanks." He quickly fills a second plate, then carries both to the kitchen table.

My mouth is watering as I follow him, but my curiosity is even more insatiable than my appetite. "Ignorant _gringa_ here, but…what is it?"

He pulls out a chair. "_Arroz con frijoles negros. _Cubans call it _moros y cristianos."_ The Spanish phrases roll off his tongue like a rippling brook, and I'm completely mesmerized.

"And what is that in English?" Smiling up at him, I lower myself into the chair.

Another flicker of a grin. "Black beans and rice."

It sounds better in Spanish.

Finally, I can resist no longer, and I fork up a mouthful of deliciousness. It's…oh, God, it's magnificent. A symphony of exotic flavors—the tang of onions and garlic, the sweet heat of some kind of pepper, all melded together by the comforting texture of the soft beans and chewy rice—makes my taste buds want to burst into song.

"Wow." Thoroughly impressed, I glance up at my partner. "Pretty damn good, Valens."

Scotty shovels a bite into his mouth and gives it a moment's thoughtful chewing. "Ain't as good as my mom's, that's for sure." He swallows. "But not bad."

I'm practically purring. "I mean it, Scotty, this is _delicious_."

I glance up to see him watching me with an odd, intense look I can't quite decipher. As soon as I notice it, though, he clears his throat and turns his attention back to his plate.

"How was work?" His question is artificially bright, setting my detective antennae quivering anew.

With a bit of trepidation, I get him up to speed on the frustrating muddle that is the Eldon Hooper case. Hooper's brilliant resume in a competitive field coupled with, apparently, an extremely off-putting personality meant there were plenty of people who wanted him dead. So far, though, no one has emerged as the front-runner.

Scotty's eyes start to gleam as we talk. For a moment, I can pretend we're at our little cluster of desks at work, trading theories over a quick takeout lunch, except…wait. No, I can't. This food is too damn good.

"How'd he die?" Scotty asks around a mouthful of his dinner.

"Poison, looks like."

He chuckles. "Then your doer's gotta be a woman."

My right eyebrow shoots halfway up my forehead, but my partner's unfazed.

"Ain't a sexist remark, Lil. It's a fact. The ladies love to poison."

I fork up another mouthful of rice and beans. "I'm not offended, Scotty. Just surprised. We've been focusing on the roommate, 'cause he's got motive in spades, but I just don't think he's got it in him."

A peculiar grin crosses my partner's face. "So tell me about the ladies."

I brief him on the three women in Eldon Hooper's life: his girlfriend, who might have had motive, but who was attending a conference halfway across the country on the day of the murder, the roommate's now-wife, who no one's looked at quite yet, and the ex-wife of another friend of his…who, I remember reading just today, has spent the last forty years climbing the ladder of a major pharmaceutical research company.

"I _knew_ we were missin' somethin', Scotty," I enthuse. "It's just not the same around there without you."

Another strange look flickers across his face, but he's on his feet and turning back toward the kitchen before I can begin any kind of analysis. "I'm gettin' seconds. Want some?"

I start to demur, but then I notice that my plate is completely empty. How did that happen?

"I'd love some."

Avoiding my eyes, Scotty grabs my plate and turns back to the stove.

I'm just taking another sip of wine when an annoying buzz pierces the quiet. With a small, exasperated sigh, I set my glass down, get up, and retrieve the slender black phone from the counter. It'd figure that the first pleasant evening I've had in a while would get interrupted by a call from the office.

Oh, good. Just an e-mail. I flick my finger across the screen and flit my eyes over the message.

_You're ready to move with Reddi-Move…16' truck…pick-up FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 6 in PHILADELPHIA, PA…drop-off MONDAY, FEBRUARY 9 in MIAMI, FL…_

_Miami_? I don't remember reserving _anything _for Miami, although the sleet pattering against the window makes me wish I had. My brow furrowed, I scan the rest of the message, wondering who in the world would have stolen my credit card to reserve a—a _moving truck_, for God's sake.

Except…wait a minute. I distinctly remember taking a call from Vera on the way home and stuffing my phone into my coat pocket right before I got off the train.

Which means_ this _phone, the one that looks so much like mine that our frequent mix-ups are a bit of a running joke in the office, is...

Oh.

_Oh._

Oh, dear God, _no._

I stare, openmouthed, at the little screen wobbling in my suddenly shaky hand, and then I turn my astonished gaze onto Scotty, who's standing there grinning at me, the bottle of wine in one hand, my empty glass in the other.

"More wine, Lil?"


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Sorry for the delay, everybody. We had a stomach virus at our house last week, plus I was chasing down a couple of mischievous little plot bunnies. Hope this is worth the wait!

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. Or a Segway. Or even a bottle of wine at the moment. One of the three can be easily procured. (I wish it was #1, but I'll settle for #3).

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

**Containing Surprising Revelations, A Segway, and Ornamental Concrete**

Scotty must have taken my flabbergasted silence as an indication that I wanted more wine, because a newly full glass now sits on the table next to my steaming, refilled plate. Two minutes ago, I'd have been attacking that plate like there was no tomorrow…but two minutes ago, my stomach wasn't roiling, my hands weren't shaking, my chest wasn't filled with the sickening chill of panicked betrayal. Two minutes ago, I could fucking _breathe._

It's amazing how much can change in two minutes.

"Hey," Scotty calls from the kitchen. "Was that my phone, or yours?"

As though moving in a trance, I press the button on his phone and set it back on the counter. "Yours."

The scraping of the spoon in the pan mingles with his quiet chuckle. "Y'know, I've been meanin' to get a new case for mine, one of those fancy ones, so we don't always..." Turning to face me, he meets my eyes and swallows whatever he intended to say.

Concern etched across his features, he sets his plate down on the table and studies me for a moment. "Everything okay, Lil?"

"Miami, Scotty?" My voice is an icicle.

For a long moment, he stands there blinking, his gaze darting from me to the phone and back again. I can see the pieces clicking together in his mind as he realizes the enormity of what I've just accidentally learned.

"Well, it's gotta be a helluva lot nicer down there this time of year, right?" As though to prove his point, a vicious gust flings another handful of winter against the window.

I level him with my patented Ice Queen stare. "_Miami_, Scotty?"

Scotty raises his hands in self-defense. "Look, I got a cousin down there who's gonna let me crash at his apartment for a couple weeks until I find my own place. He works mall security, said he can hook me up."

To my horror, my brain is easily able to torment me with a disturbing image of Scotty zipping around on a Segway, dodging his way around loitering teenagers and power-walking retirees.

"And _he _knows this guy who's startin' up his own ornamental concrete business-"

"Ornamental _concrete_?!" I'm not sure what's more ridiculous: ornamental concrete, or Scotty Valens, Mall Cop.

"Yeah, I hear there's good money in that, so if it all pans out, I can ditch the security gig pretty quick, and-"

"_Miami, Scotty?"_

Finally, _finally, _he drops the charade and meets my icy glare with a fiery one of his own. "Well, what the hell d'you want me to do, Lil?"

My jaw drops. "I want you to _fight! _The grand jury doesn't start until tomorrow, and if you're indicted-"

"_If_?" he scoffs. "When's the last time you heard of a grand jury not indictin'?"

"Then the trial wouldn't be for months, and there's no guarantee you'd be convicted! Don't you think you're…catastrophizing just a little?"

"Catastrophizin'?" Scotty issues a short, bitter bark of laughter. "Oh, I'm _way _past that. There won't be a trial, Lil. Hell, there's not even gonna be a grand jury."

All I can do is stare at him and wonder what other surprises he's got up his sleeve.

"I'm takin' a plea."

_What?_ No. No no _no_. He can't give up. He _can't._

"A plea? A plea to _what?"_

"Reckless endangerment." Raking a hand through his hair, he starts to pace my small dining room. "It's a pretty good deal, Lil. I'm off the force, but I get to keep my pension, plus there's no jail time, just a year's probation. Figure it ain't gonna get much better than that."

"That's—that's just a misdemeanor, right?" Everything is whirling. Whirling so fast I feel like it's about to fling me into another dimension.

Scotty flashes a cheap replica of his trademark cocky grin. "Well, it would be, except there's...how'd my attorney put it? Oh, yeah. A 'sentiment' that I oughta plead guilty to a hate crime."

"A _hate crime?" _Every synapse in my brain is firing with disbelief. I wonder how much more it can absorb.

"Yeah. So that'll bump it up to a felony."

A _felony_. Dear God. I'm freezing and broiling at the same time, shaking but rooted to the spot. My thundering heart feels like it's being crushed between two pieces of glowing hot lead.

"But you didn't...Scotty, you...a hate crime is..."

"_Wake up_, Lil," he snaps. "Yusef's black, those kids who shot out my windows are black…"

"But—but Yusef's race isn't why you shot him! And those two punks? You didn't even know what they looked like when you came outside!"

Scotty flings his arms wide. "A fourteen-year-old kid is never gonna walk again 'cause of me. I gotta confess to _somethin'!"_

"To _what_?" I search his face in utter disbelief. "Makin' a judgment call? Using your training and the information you had at the time to do what you thought was best? To do what _any_ good cop woulda done?"

"Oh, and you think that's gonna help me sleep at night?"

"You think you're gonna be able to sleep at night if you confess to a crime you didn't commit?" My eyes bore into his, willing him to accept the sheer idiocy of what he's about to admit to doing. "You didn't shoot Yusef out of hate, Scotty! You shot him because you thought he shot another cop!"

"Don't you think I _know_ that?" His anger fades as quickly as it flared, and my heart gives a painful squeeze at the sheen of tears in his eyes. "But my attorney says I'm an idiot if I think a grand jury's gonna see what's in my heart. Y'know, unless _I_ testify, which is apparently even dumber than everything I've done already. So either way, I'm screwed, I'm out of a job, and—and the idea of bein' here, bein' in Philly, after _this_, I just…" he trails off and shakes his head. "So, yeah. Miami, Lil."

Tilting my head to the side, I search his face, desperate for any shred of hope. "I can't believe you're just gonna give up like this. The Scotty I know would never walk away from a fight. He'd never strike out lookin'. The Scotty I know would-"

"Would you stop thinkin' I'm some—some kinda _hero_ for a second and just _look?!" _Scotty bursts out. "I'm a _screw-up_. Always have been, always will be. I pull this kinda shit over and over, and it took a while, but IAD finally picked up on it." His hand races through his hair again. "You were right, Lil. They're out to get me. They couldn't hang me on Burrell, or your shootin'…but this? They got me on this." He breaks off with a bitter laugh. "And even if somehow, by some _miracle_, this doesn't stick, then somethin' else will. And—and I'm just…not sure it's worth the fight'."

I turn pleading eyes on him. "But you said yourself, last night, that a cop is all you've ever wanted to be."

His jaw works for a moment, his lips twitch. For a moment, I think maybe I've gotten through to him.

"Yeah, well." He brushes his upper lip with his thumb and looks up at me, his eyes bottomless pools of pain. "Y'know what I want even more than that? To not feel like _this."_ Anguish chokes the word. "And the only way I can think of, the only thing I can possibly come up with, that even gives me a _chance _to do that…is to just plead guilty and then get the hell outta here."

We look at each other for a long moment, me silently begging him to reconsider, but the dark, hopeless finality written all over his face tell me that further argument will be pointless. His decision is made. I put up a hell of a fight, but I lost. It's over.

I glance down at the floor, swallow hard, then look back up at him. "So were you ever gonna tell me?"

Pain flickers in his eyes.

"Or was I gonna come into work on Monday and find out from…I dunno, Vera or someone?"

"Lil-"

"Did I mean enough for you to tell me to my face, Scotty?" I'm practically shouting now. "Or was I just gonna get a text or somethin'? 'So long, Rush, I'm takin' my talents to South Beach?"

"Dammit, Lil!" He smacks the table with his hand. The plates clatter, a few drops of wine spill out of our glasses. "I just decided this last night, all right?"

His head bowed, Scotty grabs the back of the chair in a white-knuckled grip and takes a few quick gulps of air.

"Of _course _I was gonna tell you." His voice is surprisingly tender. "I just…hadn't quite figured out how yet."

Releasing the chair, he comes around the table and takes my hands in his. His gaze is soft, so-reverent, almost, that it steals what little breath I have left.

"Lil, you're the greatest cop I know. And it's been a real honor, bein' your partner all these years." The words sound thick, as though squeezed out around a lump in his throat that rivals the size of the one that's suddenly taken up residence in mine. "You've made me see things in ways I never thought I'd see 'em, you made me wanna be the best I could be, the best person, the best partner…you-you just made me wanna be _better_, y'know?"

His lips are trembling. If I weren't biting mine, they'd be doing the same.

"I—I l_ove_...workin' with you, Lil. And not gettin' to do that anymore, not gettin' to _see_ you anymore, that's gonna be…" He's fighting like hell for control, but a renegade tear sneaks out of the corner of his eye anyway. With an embarrassed half-smile, he brushes it away, turns his gaze to the corner, and blows out a shaky breath.

I can't look at him anymore, or I'll be a helpless, sobbing puddle in the middle of my kitchen. Cloaking my heartbreak in an icy mask, I slip my fingers from his warm, firm grasp and take a step back.

"So this is goodbye, then."

"Lil, _please_…"

"After all these years, after all we've been through, this is_ it_? This is how it ends?" I'd never thought to write an ending to our partnership, because I honestly never thought there'd _be _one.

I thought I'd have Scotty forever.

He tries to laugh. "Oh, you know the brass. They'll have a new partner for ya by the end of next week."

_New partner? _Those three syllables are a wrecking ball to the pathetic remnants of my defenses. I'd just begun to wrap my head around Scotty leaving, but to be forced to work with some stranger when the gunshot wound of Scotty's departure is still bleeding all over the place? That idea fills me with such revulsion, such raw panic that I want to run, to hide…hell, to rent my own moving truck and go be a mall cop in Miami with Scotty. I can't—I can't do what I do without him. I can't. I can't. I _can't._

My heart feels like a pressure cooker about to explode. Emotions are churning, swirling, whirring around in there, new ones, old ones, some I can't even identify, but nonetheless they're so powerful I almost can't stand up under them. I don't want to feel these things, hell, right now, I don't want to feel _anything_, I want to rip my heart out of my body and fling it out into the sleet so I can just _stop feeling._

Scotty's still talking, still rubbing salt into my wounds. "I heard there's this new guy, just transferred in from NYPD. Everett...Elliot...somethin' like that. Maybe they'll put him down there workin' the cold jobs with you. Maybe he can-"

"Scotty, _stop!" _My hands are balled into tight fists to keep them from trembling, the nails digging into my palms, every muscle in my body coiled like a spring.

"Don't you _get_ it?" I try to look into his eyes, but my own are so flooded with tears that I can't read the expression. "I came to work today, and you weren't there, and it was like the life had gone outta the place. Scotty, I can't do what I do without you. You—you're my rock. You're the only thing in my whole life that's ever stayed the same. The one person in the _world _I can count on."

All these feelings are spinning, spewing, splattering everywhere, as uncontrollable and unchecked as the tears streaming down my face. "I don't _want _a new partner!" I sound like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but I don't care. "Scotty, I want _you. _I need _you. _I love _you."_

With a quiet gasp, I freeze.

The silence is so thick you'd need a machete to cut it. Deafening, roaring silence as the whirling storm of emotions quiets and all the evidence condenses into a single, crystalline conclusion, one that resonates in every fiber of my being.

I _do_ love Scotty.

I love him.

I _love _him.

Whether I intended to say what I said or not, I know, to the deepest part of my soul, that I meant it. And Scotty…poor Scotty, I think he can see it splashed all over my face, because he's staring at me, his mouth slightly agape, his dark brows flickering toward each other, thousands of emotions swirling in those endless brown eyes.

He can _see_ it.

He knows I meant it.

He _knows._

"Crap," I whisper.

Scotty's frown is growing deeper by the second. A handful of words die half-formed on his lips before he's finally able to string together a sentence.

"Were—were you plannin' on, y'know…_tellin_' me at some point?"

"I-"

"Or was I gonna come in some mornin' and find out from, I dunno, _Vera _or someone?"

"Scotty-"

"_How long_, Lil?" He looks like he's about to crack from the strain of it.

"How long have I known?" I flick him an icy glare. "About forty-five seconds."

I wait for the angry retort and am pleasantly surprised when none comes.

Taking a deep breath, I slowly walk toward him. "How long have I loved you?" I linger on that all-important word, so he knows that this time...this time I said it on purpose.

"I honestly don't know. I don't have a...a _moment_ where I didn't love you before it and I did after. I just…I think it's been buildin' and buildin' over the last few…" Months? Years? Right now I can't remember a time when I didn't love him. "I don't know, Scotty. I don't know, because it happened so gradually that I didn't recognize it; I didn't see it for what it was, and now that I know how I feel I just…I can't let you leave without…without…"

…_without knowing what it's like to kiss you._

With a boldness I didn't know I had, I close the distance between us and gently grasp his face in my hands. His skin is so delightfully warm. The barest hint of stubble grazes my palms. Those beautiful cheekbones arch beneath my fingers. His eyes fall closed as I stretch up and give him a soft, tentative kiss.

I let my lips linger on his for a moment, just long enough to memorize their supple firmness, how they fit against mine so perfectly, how even that whisper of contact makes me feel like I'm _home_…so that after he's gone, I can remember, in exquisite, excruciating detail, what it was like to kiss Scotty Valens.

He barely responds. I don't know whether he's too stunned to move—hell, I would be, if I were him- or whether he's about to feed me some line like he loves me, but he's not _in _love with me, or it's not me, it's him…

Suddenly mortified, I pull away, wipe the tears from my cheeks, and turn my back on him, trying desperately to gather what's left of my dignity, to reassemble my concrete walls of self-preservation.

"But it doesn't matter." An embarrassed, almost drunken-sounding laugh slips out. "None of it matters, because you're takin' a plea, and you rented a goddamn moving truck, and you're goin' to Miami to be a mall cop, and-"

"Lil."

He's so close that his breath tickles my neck, sending shivers all up and down my spine. Before I can react, Scotty's hands are on my shoulders, gently turning me to face him.

His eyes are...oh, dear God, they're _smoldering. _

Those eyes search my face for just an instant…and then his lips are on mine, devouring them in a ravenous kiss.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Thanks for all your continued support! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story!

I have an extremely busy week ahead of me. I will get the next chapter up as soon as I can, but it might be a longer-than-normal wait. Apologies in advance. :)

Disclaimer: Scotty and Lilly are still not mine, alas, alack.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

**Containing a Lint-Covered Blanket and Big Plans**

He's kissing me.

He's _kissing _me.

_He's_ kissing _me._

That one all-consuming, life-altering notion has burned every other thought out of my normally-capable brain as Scotty feasts on my lips. He's backed me up a few paces, pressing me against the wall of my dining room. The coolness of the plaster seeping into my back is a sharp contrast to the heat I'm feeling everywhere else.

Somewhere along the line, my ponytail disappeared, and now my hair is cascading down around my shoulders. Scotty seems to have just discovered this; with a half-whispered, half-growled burst of Spanish, he tangles his fingers in it, toying with it for a moment, before gently tilting my face upward to kiss my jaw...my earlobe…my neck.

My breath is coming in short, frantic gasps; my heart hammering so hard I'm pretty sure he can feel it against his lips when he reaches the base of my throat. I'm—I'm _drowning _in him.

My fingers wander up from where they've been digging into his shoulders to glide up the back of his neck, into his hair. They dance through the close-cropped raven strands for a moment before deciding to revisit his shoulders, skim along their sculpted surface, then slip beneath that flannel shirt and send it tumbling to the floor.

My hands seem wild. Independent. Possessed by some force beyond my control, by a sudden, nearly insatiable need to explore, to investigate, to unlock all the mysteries of this wonderful man.

But Scotty's kisses feel almost…planned. Pent-up. As though this maelstrom of desire I'm just now discovering has been percolating inside him for…for…

"How long, Scotty?"

He doesn't answer. He's too focused on scorching my collarbone with kisses, on fumbling with the top button of my shirt. If his blood is roaring in his ears the way mine is, it's entirely possible he didn't hear me.

"Scotty."

"Mmmm." The button pops open.

"How long?"

He still doesn't answer, so I place my hands on his chest and gently create some space between us.

"Lil?" His lips are slightly swollen from our madness, his breathing as ragged as mine, his eyes almost ebony with desire.

I study him as best I can in my addled state. "How long have you…wanted to kiss me?"

"You really wanna know? Right now?"

"Wouldn't have stopped if I didn't."

A corner of his mouth quirks up at that. "Okay, fair enough." He searches my face for a moment, then takes as deep a breath as he can muster. "I've been wantin' to kiss you…since about five minutes after I met you."

My mouth falls open; my eyes grow to the size of dinner plates.

"Hey, you asked." The same cocky grin that greeted me outside the interview room all those years ago slowly creeps across his face. "You bossin' me around, 'I talk, you listen,' and all that, bein' a badass, and that…that got me wonderin' just what it might take to melt all that ice."

My jaw is practically on the floor. My partner has wanted to kiss me _that long? _I—I'm a detective. A damn good one. How the hell could I have been working so closely with him for so long and not had even the faintest _clue_ that he-

"Lil?"

Scotty's voice jerks me out of my mental rambling. A slight twinkle of amusement lightens the frustrated darkness of his eyes.

"I wanna talk about this, okay? Believe me…I got so much to tell you, but…" With a sheepish grin, he quirks a brow and pointedly glances down, then back up at me. "Can we...can we talk later?"

My own desire drowning out nearly everything else, I make a needy sound of agreement, and his lips crash into mine all over again.

* * *

My head, the room, hell, the whole world is still spinning as Scotty claims my lips with a fiercely satisfied kiss and then pushes himself up to a sitting position. I'd love to join him, but these damn sofa cushions have sucked me in like quicksand. No _wonder _he hasn't been sleeping. I don't know how anyone could on this thing.

Glancing down at me, Scotty chuckles at my predicament and offers a hand. "C'mon."

With a grin, I slip my fingers into his firm grasp and finally manage to sit up. "Y'know, I think I overestimated the comfort of my couch."

At that, Scotty bursts into laughter. Genuine, glorious laughter, emanating from some deep, long-forgotten place inside him. His joy is contagious, and I can't help grinning like an idiot as I look at him. His eyes, so dark and so heavy for so long, have turned a warm golden brown, sparkling with life and happiness and _hope_. His sweat-glazed skin glows as though lit from within, his smile spreads the whole width of his face, carving out an adorable set of dimples…and then he pulls me close, presses a kiss to the top of my head, and sighs, a delicious, delirious sigh of release and relief, as though the thousand tons of weight he's carried around with him since the shooting have lifted, even if only for a moment.

Pillowing my head on his chest, hearing his still-racing heart, wrapping my arms around his waist, I try, somehow, to comprehend what's just happened. In the last half-hour, Scotty Valens has gone from being just my partner, my friend, to being…well…my _partner. _The man I love. The man I can't imagine life without. It's clear that my heart has known for quite some time that Scotty was the one it beat for. I'm almost embarrassed at how long it took my brain.

But the length of time isn't the only thing I'm suddenly embarrassed about. Did I really just—did _we _just—right here? _Tonight? _ After the fight and the e-mail and…

The sweat evaporating on my skin chills me on the outside as memories of what preceded our wanton interlude do the same from within. Suddenly feeling exposed, I scoot a few inches toward the end of the couch, then jerk a blanket down from the back of it and try to cover as much of myself as possible.

"Y'okay, Lil?" Scotty's eyeing me with concern. "I…wasn't too rough, was I?"

"No." Remembering sends a delicious tingle up my spine and a blast of heat into my cheeks. "Definitely…no. It's just…"

My focus is drawn to a few pills of lint on the pale blue surface of the blanket, and I pluck a few of them off, gathering my courage, before daring to look up at him again. "What—what does this mean?"

Scotty lets out a relieved-sounding chuckle. "Well, just in case I didn't make it crystal clear just now, it means…I love you, too."

"Really?" Happy tears sting my eyes as he clasps one of my hands in both of his.

"You're the first thing I think about when I wake up in the mornin'," he continues, with a self-deprecating grin. "I know, it sounds…cheesy, or whatever, but it's true. And when I come in to work, yours is the first face I wanna see, 'cause when I do, it's like the sun comes out. No matter how crappy of a day I'm havin', no matter how bad the case is we're workin', all I gotta do is look at you, and I just feel…_better_, y'know? And when you smile at me, when I see that…that thousand-watt, neon lights, New Year's Eve at Times Square smile, like the one you're givin' me right now? Lil, I'd do _anything_ for that smile."

I can't quite suppress the girlish giggle that leaps from my lips.

"I don't know when it happened, or how, but somehow you just…got into my heart when I wasn't lookin'." He looks deep into my eyes, so deep I feel it in my soul. "I love you, Lilly Rush. I'm—I'm crazy, outta my _mind_ in love with you."

The air around us feels shimmery. Dream-like. Only I've never had a dream as wonderful as this.

"Sounds like you've known for a while."

His mouth curves in a self-satisfied smirk. "Lot longer than you, that's for sure."

"You're never gonna let me live that down, are you?"

"Nope." He presses a quick kiss to my lips.

"So when did you figure it out?" I'm suddenly dying to know.

Scotty pauses for a moment, sudden shadows flitting across his face, then reaches up and tenderly brushes a stray lock of hair off my forehead.

"The day you were shot."

My smile fades at the huskiness in his voice. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." His eyes are a curious, faraway swirl of emotions. "You were…in surgery, and they didn't know if you were gonna make it. All the rest of 'em were in the waiting room, but I was out in the hallway, pacin' the floor, realizin' just how—how devastated I'd be if I lost you." A hint of a rueful smile tugs at his lips. "Didn't take me too long to figure out why."

"Scotty…" I trail the backs of my fingers over his cheek. "I'm sorry. I—I had no idea."

"I know." He captures my hand in his, kissing my fingertips almost shyly, like he still can't believe he's allowed to touch me. "I…didn't really mean for you to. Not back then."

"So were you ever gonna tell me?"

"I wanted to," he sighs. "So many times…but I never knew how to approach you, y'know?"

My frown deepens. "Scotty, it's _me._ You can tell me anything."

"Yeah, but _that? _You were already goin' through so much, and what we had—what we _have…_is so great that—that I didn't wanna screw it up. I almost lost you once, and I thought that…y'know , if I rocked the boat, that I'd lose you for good."

"So you chickened out." I flash him a teasing smile.

His laughter thrills me to the tips of my toes. "C'mon, Lil. What would you have said if I'd told you back then? You'da run for the hills!"

"Hey." I glare at him in mock indignation. "In my defense, it would've been a pretty big shock."

"Kinda like when I'm standin' in your kitchen just now, and the last person in the world I'da thought would ever feel a damn thing for me is suddenly blurtin' out that she loves me."

"That why you didn't kiss me back?"

Barely-concealed desire flares in his eyes. "Oh, I kissed you back all right."

And _how._ "Only after you stood there like a statue, makin' me think you were tryin' to figure out how to let me down easy."

"Lil…I don't think anything you coulda said woulda shocked me more than that." His thumb caresses the back of my hand. "I dreamed about it so many times, I-I thought any minute I was gonna wake up all…pissed off and needin' a cold shower." A soft chuckle bubbles up from his throat. "I don't think I've ever been so happy to be awake."

If he looks at me like that for even one more second, I think my heart is going to burst. And then he kisses me again, and it does.

I never knew I could love someone like this. I never knew someone could love _me _like this, the adoration he's pouring into each fervent kiss just as clear as if he were speaking it out loud. Everyone I've ever loved has been in and out of my life, mostly out, but Scotty has always been here. No matter what I've gone through, he's stood by my side, ready to step in when I need him. The one constant in my life, the one person who's always going to…

_Crap._

I freeze as the icy water of reality pours over me. A second later, my hands are on his chest, pushing him back once more.

With a quiet groan of frustration, he tears his lips from mine, then lets his forehead drop onto my shoulder. "Lil," he rasps. "You're killin' me here."

"Scotty…"

He raises his head, that penetrating gaze flitting over my face. "What's wrong?"

"Scotty, is this…?" I can't even bear to utter the word. As torturous as it was earlier, saying goodbye to him now would tear me apart. "I mean, are we gonna try the distance thing, or—or are we…is this…?"

Scotty sits stock-still, his expression so adorably startled that, were my very heart not in the balance, I'd laugh. I can almost _hear _the record scratch in his head, and the myriad of emotions flickering across his face makes it clear that, for the moment, anyway, he's completely forgotten everything but me. This. _Us._

After a long moment, determination glinting in his eyes, he stands up and heads toward the kitchen.

"Scotty?"

"I'll be right back."

A few seconds later, the hardwood floors creak beneath his bare feet as he returns, phone in hand, a cocky smirk plastered across his face.

My lips quirked in a confused half-smile, my right eyebrow arched, I watch his thumbs dance across the screen. A moment's wait, and then phone buzzes in his hands. He looks at it with smug satisfaction, then gently tosses it onto the couch next to me.

"There."

I regard the phone as I might a poisonous snake. " 'There' what?"

"See for yourself." Another glance up at him shows that his smirk has only gotten cockier. I didn't think that was possible.

With a bemused frown, I retrieve the phone and look down at the tiny little screen, the screen that gave me the biggest jolt of my life not even an hour ago.

_Mr. Valens:_

_This serves as your official notice that your reservation of a 16' truck from PHILADELPHIA PA to MIAMI FL has been cancelled. Please do not hesitate to contact us in the future if we can serve you in any way._

_Your Friends At Reddi-Move_

For the second time in less than an hour, I'm staring openmouthed at my partner. "You cancelled the truck?"

"I cancelled the truck." He looks ridiculously proud of himself.

"Really?"

"Yeah." Scotty sits down on the sofa next to me and loops his arm around my shoulders with as much natural ease as if he's been doing it his whole life. "Really."

Pulling me close, he presses a kiss to my hair. My heart wants to burst into song, but the rest of me is deeply suspicious.

"You chucked your life's plans, just like that, because some blonde told you she's in love with you?"

"Movin' to Miami wasn't my 'life's plans,' Lil," Scotty retorts. "It was an escape route. And you sure as hell ain't 'some blonde.' You've _never _been just 'some blonde.' You're—you're _you."_

"But all those things you said, about not wanting to be in Philly after all this…" I pull back slightly, my eyes peering deep into his.

His lips curve in a tender smile. "Let's just say I didn't have all the evidence I needed."

I'm still not convinced.

He must be able to tell, because he lifts my hand to his lips and presses a kiss to the back of it. "Lil…one of the reasons I never told you how I felt was 'cause I didn't wanna scare the crap outta you. And maybe this will, I dunno, but I'm gonna say it anyway." He swallows hard and takes a deep breath. "I got plans for us, Lil. Big plans. Plans that…well, that runnin' away to Miami sure as hell don't fit in with."

His whole face is radiant. Earnest. Holy crap, he's—he's _serious._

"So you cancelled the truck."

He lifts a hand and trails it through my hair, those warm brown eyes locked on mine, a flirtatious smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"I…" he feathers a kiss to my cheek.

"…cancelled…" another one to my other cheek.

"…the truck." He kisses the tip of my nose, his eyes sparkling with delight.

"You're staying." The joy is bubbling up inside my heart, but I can't let it have free rein. Not yet.

"I ain't goin' nowhere, Lil. Not without you." His voice is husky as he captures my lips. Gone is the pent-up passion of earlier, and in its place is a love so sweet, so pure, that it steals what little breath I have left.

He means it. Despite all the reasons why he could, and maybe even why he should, he's not going anywhere. I turn loose and let the joy bloom in my heart.

When we slowly pull apart, he leans his forehead against mine and gives the back of my neck a gentle squeeze. "Still can't believe I get to do that for real insteada just in my head."

I can't help the giggle that escapes my lips before I pull back to study his face. I hate to keep bringing this up, hate to keep reminding him of the mess he's in, hate to do _anything _to dampen his newfound happiness…but I have to say this, or it won't get said.

"Y'know, I…I meant what I said before. About not wantin' a new partner."

Something curious sparks in his eyes as he nods.

"But…if you can't come back, if takin' the plea is still what you need to do…" Lacing my fingers through his, I give them a gentle squeeze. "Scotty, as long as I have you here, as long as I have _you, _then…partners or not, I can do my job just fine."

"Oh, _hell_, no."

His sudden declaration startles me, and my eyes widen in a wordless question.

"I ain't takin' that plea, Lil. Not anymore."

"You're not?"

"Not a chance." That cocky grin starts to spread over his face. "That grand jury's just gonna have to indict my ass, 'cause I ain't confessin' to a crime I didn't commit."

I search his eyes. "What…what changed your mind?"

"You." His eyes glint with that old, familiar spark. "I—I didn't have much fight left in me, I'll admit…but now? Knowin' you love me? Knowin' I've got _you?"_ He blows out a breath. "Damn, Lil. I could take on the world."

"Well, you know I've got your back, whatever you need." I flash him a wide smile. "Partners, right?"

"Yeah." His whole face lights up. "Partners."

He's kissing me again, like his very life depends on it. His hands are cupping the back of my neck, his fingers are tangling in my hair, and after a moment, he's driving me back down into the quicksand-like sofa cushions.

This time, I'm not going to stop him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **None of these characters are mine. Derek Strauss belongs to SVU; I don't own him, either. I don't think I'd want to, though, because he's kind of slimy.

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

**Containing Angry Birds, Flashbacks, and Excessive Amounts of Hair Product **

One of the grand jurors yawns and shifts in her seat, another scribbles notes as though she's heard there will be an exam at the end, and I can see on the face of a bearded man in the front an almost twitchy desire to yank the iPhone out of his shirt pocket and play a few rounds of Angry Birds or something, just to liven things up a bit. I don't blame him, really. Sitting there in a crowded jury box with seventeen strangers, encased in a stuffy, windowless courtroom can't be the most exciting way to spend a day.

This isn't the first time I've been stationed at this little table, the jurors a few feet in front of me, that smarmy prick of a prosecutor pacing back and forth between us. But I've never studied the grand jury as closely. Never willed them to pay attention, to open their eyes and see beyond the sleazy picture of Scotty that Derek Strauss is trying to paint. Never silently begged them to please, please, for once, _not _issue an indictment.

Strauss's back is to me as he consults his notes. His sandy blond hair is sticking up at odd angles all around his head, and the copious amount of gel he's put into it suggests he spent a good deal of time on it. This man made a conscious decision to leave his house this morning looking like some sort of mutant marine creature. God alone knows why.

"So the night in question, you were the first to volunteer to aid Officer McKenna, correct?"

"Yes, I was."

"But Detective Valens, despite having had a few drinks, overruled you and insisted he go."

"Yes." Annoyance flares in my chest; I tamp it down.

Strauss turns around and peers down his nose at me. "Any idea why he was so insistent, Detective?"

My mind flashes back to the haunted look in Scotty's eyes that night when Dragin told him he thought the kid had a gun. At the time, I thought he was just being his typical overprotective self. But now, knowing what I know…

"No." I hope my voice is steady.

Strauss studies me for a moment. "We'll come back to that." In a move I'm certain is engineered for dramatic effect, he turns his back to me again and starts to walk toward the jury.

"Two nights later, after hours, you went to Detective Valens' apartment."

"Yes." Where the hell is he going with this?

"Why?"

Bristling, I can't help but flick an icy glare at the prosecutor as he turns to face me. "He's my partner, and I hadn't heard from him all day. I wanted to check on him."

"Mmm." Strauss seems unimpressed. "And what did you observe when you arrived?"

The punching bag. The newspapers everywhere. The furniture shoved against the wall. "He was coping as well as could be expected."

"A few minutes after your arrival," Strauss flips a page of his yellow legal pad, "three shots were fired through Detective Valens' window, correct?"

I suppress a shiver. "That's correct."

"And when the shots were fired, what happened?"

He shielded my body with his own, he took me in his arms, he picked glass out of my hair and thanked God I was safe. Love floods my heart as I look back on the events of that night in light of…additional evidence.

"I went outside and confronted the suspects."

"And what did Detective Valens do?"

A tiny smirk tugs at my lips. "I have no idea, Counselor. I was already outside."

"Don't be cute, Detective." There's a spark of irritation in Strauss' green eyes. "You know perfectly well that Detective Valens came outside wielding a…" he consults his notes for effect, "…a softball bat, isn't that right?"

"Yes." Unfortunately.

The juror who earlier seemed to be dying to whip out his phone perks up at that. Guess something finally snagged his interest.

"And what did you advise Detective Valens to do at that time?" Strauss asks.

"I told him I'd handle it, and he needed to step back."

A knowing smirk curves Strauss's lips. "Did he follow your orders?"

"Yes." Eventually.

"But not before swinging the bat at a pair of unarmed nineteen-year-olds, who, let the record reflect, are also African-American."

This makes one of the jurors, a middle-aged black woman, sit up straighter in her seat.

"The suspects," I linger on the word, "were unarmed only because a third one ran off and tossed the gun down a sewer grate. And Detective Valens didn't confront them because of their race. He had no way of knowing what they even looked like. He came outside because he was angry about being attacked, late at night, in his own home."

"Angry." Strauss seems to savor the word. "Yes, I imagine he was. But in this instance, it seems he let his anger get the upper hand, wouldn't you agree?"

The violent clang of softball bat on garbage can echoes through my mind, along with the knowledge that, had I not been there, God alone knows what, or who, Scotty might have hit instead.

Reluctantly, I concede half an inch. "I suppose it's possible."

"Can you think of any other times when Detective Valens has let his anger get the better of him?" Strauss asks, with elaborate casualness.

Fragmented images flash through my head. Images of torn flesh and bruised knuckles around the time I started seeing Joseph. Images of Scotty slamming a suspect's head into a table after Elisa died. But I never learned the source of the former, and Boss kept the latter in-house.

My conscience clear, I lift my chin and look the prosecutor straight in the eyes. "Not that I can recall."

Strauss flips another page in his notes. "Well, then, Detective Rush, allow me to jog your memory. In 2007, you solved the 1987 murder of Clayton Hathaway. Are you familiar with that case?"

A young boy molested, then murdered, by his best friend's father? Hard to forget a case like that.

I allow a slight narrowing of my eyes. "I'm familiar."

Placing his notes on his desk, Strauss buttons his suit jacket and begins to pace in front of me. "So then you're also no doubt aware that Detective Valens leaked critical information about the investigation to Clayton Hathaway's father, who then used that information to track down Cliff Burrell, take him up to a rooftop, and come perilously close to pushing him off?"

A couple of the jurors and I sit up straighter in our chairs. At the time, I was furious with Scotty, but I can't let that seep out here. "Mitch Hathaway was our prime suspect. Detective Valens released a piece of evidence based on that suspicion."

"I see. So the detective's reaction, his _over_reaction, in this case, was in no way influenced by the fact that his brother, Michael Valens, was himself a victim of molestation as a child, and was a key witness in the trial of Bobby Fitzpatrick a few months earlier?"

The question is a punch to the gut, and it takes me a moment to get my breath back. "You have no proof of that."

Strauss seems undaunted. "Well, are Detective Valens and his brother estranged in any way?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"They…have a good relationship?"

"They seem to." Better than Chris and me, that's for damn sure.

Cocking his head, Strauss looks at me like I'm a not-so-bright third-grader. "So, given the _good _relationship between Detective Valens and his brother, would you at least admit that there's a _possibility _that his brother's childhood assault could've influenced Detective Valens' actions in the Burrell case?"

My jaw tightens. "A possibility. Yes."

"Thank you, Detective Rush." Strauss allows a small, smug smile to tug at his lips for a moment before he turns another page in his notes. "It seems your partner has quite a history of allowing his emotions to run away with him, doesn't it?"

Oh, crap. What else does this jackass know about?

"Back in 2006, you and your squad closed the 1998 murder of a Colombian drug mule named Ana Castilla, correct?"

_Crap. _"Yes, we did."

"And Detective Valens was himself a person of interest in this case, was he not?"

"He worked undercover back in '98." I try to keep my voice even. "Knew the victim."

Strauss chuckles. "It looks like he knew her quite well."

_Those…car trips…she got into my head._

_Was she…a girlfriend, Scotty?_

_No! I didn't do that._

My heart aching for Scotty, much as it did years ago, I leap to his defense. "Detective Valens never did anything inappropriate while undercover."

"No?" Strauss's eyebrows shoot up. "Then why did Ms. Castilla have the detective's phone number? His _real _phone number, to his undercover line at West?"

_I guess part of me wanted her to know. Wanted her to call me. So I could save her._

Strauss doesn't wait for me to answer; it's almost as though he's heard Scotty's voice echoing in my mind. "It seems that when a woman is in danger, Detective Valens feels compelled to rescue her to the point that reason just…flies out the window, doesn't it?"

He doesn't wait for me to respond, which is just as well, because I wouldn't have been able to deny it.

"Now, in 2007, just a few weeks after the Burrell incident, you yourself were shot in the line of duty, were you not?"

"Yes, I was." Several of the jurors perk up.

"Could you briefly describe that incident for our jury, Detective?"

I suppress a shudder. "A suspect in a murder case smuggled a weapon into our office in a wheelchair. He took me, our lieutenant, and two other detectives hostage. After our lieutenant was shot, Detective Valens came inside. The suspect fired his weapon, shot me, and Detective Valens fired two shots and killed him."

"Quite the hero." Strauss's voice drips with contempt. I want to smack him. "But…in order to fly in and save his damsel in distress, your partner violated the perimeter set up by SWAT. Disobeyed a direct order from his superiors, did he not?"

"He saved my _life_."

"Answer the question, Detective."

"Yes. He did. And I'm here today only _because_ Scotty...Detective Valens...violated that perimeter." Oh, _dammit_. I'm not sure which I'm more desperate to erase: the inadvertent use of his first name, or the sudden lump in my throat.

Strauss arches a brow. "It sounds like you and Detective Valens are…very close."

Close doesn't cover the half of it_. _I give silent orders for the heat in my cheeks to cease and desist. "We've been partners since 2003, Counselor. Of course we're close."

"Perfectly understandable," Strauss replies smoothly. "As close as you are, and given the severity of your injuries, do you think Detective Valens was…shaken, perhaps, by what happened to you?"

I'm grateful for all the practice I've had hiding behind my Ice Queen mask. "Perhaps."

"Did Detective Valens ever seek any kind of counseling after you were shot?"

The question gives me pause. I know he'd have had a psych evaluation from the department shrink, just to make sure he wasn't nuts, but if I know Scotty, he'd have told them exactly what they wanted to hear so he could get the paper signed, slap it on Boss's desk, and get back out there. He's just like me in that regard.

Strauss is suddenly looming over me. "Detective?"

"I'm certain Detective Valens followed protocol and followed up with the department psychiatrist."

"But beyond that?"

"Nothing beyond that was required for him to return to duty, Counselor."

"I take it that's a no." Strauss starts to pace again. "So, going back to an earlier question…given the close nature of your relationship, and your partner's innate desire to protect…well, _all _women, it seems, but particularly women with whom he feels close, is it possible that this is why he overruled you the night of the shooting and insisted he be the one to confront Yusef Barre?"

My heart is racing. "I..."

"And when he got upstairs and discovered Officer McKenna, another female officer, in distress, is it possible that this is why he was so quick to pull the trigger? Is it possible that his closeness to you, his desire to rescue, and maybe even some lingering psychological issues from your shooting all created the perfect storm to influence his actions that night?"

"I…can't comment on the detective's state of mind."

"Oh, I'm not asking about his state of mind, Detective Rush." Strauss feigns innocence. "I'm merely asking if, based on your experience, and your knowledge of your partner's character, that it's _possible."_

My stomach plummets. "It's possible." _Dammit._

Strauss looks as pleased with himself as Olivia did that day last fall when she caught a mouse in the downstairs bathroom. "Thank you, Detective Rush. No further questions. You can step down."

* * *

The frigid air nipping at my cheeks as I leave the courthouse is a welcome change from the stuffy grand jury room. I've been walking the halls of the courthouse for the last few minutes, hoping to regain some sense of normalcy before facing Scotty, who's waiting across the street with the rest of my colleagues, clustered by a coffee wagon.

As expected, Scotty's trying to read my eyes even before I get up on the pavement."How bad was it?"

I force lightness into my voice and a smile onto my face. "It's a grand jury. Strauss can say things he can't say in a courtroom. Just makin' insinuations, that's all."

Vera's eyebrows twitch over the rim of his cardboard coffee cup. "So it _was_ bad."

I can feel Scotty's gaze on me, and after a long moment studying my shoes, I finally look up to meet it. "Scotty, I'm sorry. I—I did the best I could, but he-"

"Hey." He cuts me off, love shining in his deep brown eyes. "No matter what happens, it ain't your fault."

His attention shifts to something over my left shoulder. I turn slightly to see Yusef and his family for the first time since the shooting. The boy is in a wheelchair, his parents at his side, the ever-present Reverend Curtis just off to the left. A young man who I presume is Yusef's older brother, Berko, pushes the wheelchair carefully over the piles of snow that haven't been quite cleared from the sidewalk.

I glance up to see Scotty's eyes darkening and that muscle in his cheek twitching.

"Might not matter anyway." His voice sounds faraway. "If _he_ testifies, I'll be indicted no matter what."

I can't resist the urge to reach out and stroke his shoulder through his coat. It's not what I'd like to be doing, far from it, but it's about the only gesture I can make that won't be second-guessed by our nosy colleagues.

"Scotty," Jeffries' velvety baritone pulls our attention back to the center of the little circle we've formed. "I'm not gonna tell you what to do here…but none of us would lose any respect for you if you decided to take the plea."

"Yeah," Kat agrees. "I mean, we'd miss your sorry ass, but you gotta know we'd understand."

"Less competition for the food in the fridge, too," Vera pipes up, though the clouds in his hazel eyes tell me just how much he'd miss his friend.

Miller elbows her fiancé, then turns her attention back to Scotty, dark eyes earnest. "And we all know it wasn't 'cause of hate. Don't worry about that."

"_No way_." The vehemence in Scotty's voice echoes the old fire flashing in his eyes. "Look, if they're gonna indict me, so be it. But I'm at least gonna go down swingin'."

Three pairs of surprised eyes flit in Scotty's direction. Will speaks for all of them. "Well, whatever you decide, you know we've all got your back."

The warmth in my heart at our colleagues' support makes its way to my face in a slight smile. I've never had much in the way of family, but this group, this hodgepodge collection of murder cops, is damn close.

Scotty glances around the circle, meeting each pair of eyes, and then turns to me, wordlessly asking for my support for whatever it is he's about to do. I meet his earnest gaze, wishing we were alone, because I want nothing more than to wrap him in my arms.

After searching my eyes for a moment, he pulls his phone from his pocket, his thumb darting across the screen. "Okay, then. I'm callin' Calhoun."

"What for?" Miller asks with a frown.

He lifts the phone to his ear. "I'm gonna tell her to put me on the stand."


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** Scotty and Lilly aren't mine. Rita Calhoun isn't mine, either. She belongs to—you guessed it!—SVU. I've also given another beloved SVU character a cameo; bonus points if you can spot him. :)

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

**Containing A Little Kissing, Much Pacing, and a Paisley Tie**

Counselor Rita Calhoun's heels echo off the sidewalk like gunshots as she strides up to us a few minutes later. "Change your mind yet, Valens?"

"Not a chance." Avoiding his attorney's eyes, Scotty turns and starts to climb the steps of the courthouse. "Let's do this."

Left in his wake, Calhoun shoots me a puzzled glance as we both hurry to catch up with him.

"I can't stress enough what a bad idea this is," Calhoun tells Scotty. "Testifying before a grand jury that's investigating you? That's a cardinal sin."

"Scotty, the questions Strauss can ask…" I trail off, hoping he'll get the message, that he'll somehow figure out what I've sworn an oath not to tell him, but the waves of determination coming off him as he yanks open the glass door of the courthouse tell me that even if I gave him a play-by-play of exactly what he'll be up against, it wouldn't make a bit of difference.

"He can ask you anything he wants." Calhoun has to speak a little louder to be heard above the din of the courthouse corridor. "_Anything. _And it can all be used against you. We can put you on the stand at trial."

"_No."_ Scotty's vehemence draws the attention of a couple passersby. "I'm not gonna just...lay down and let 'em indict me without a fight. I want the grand jury to hear my side."

His attorney's reluctance is obvious from the tip of her sandy-brown updo to the toes of her cherry-red high heels. "You know none of us can be in there with you."

"Don't worry about it," Scotty replies. "It ain't on you."

The heavy wooden door to the grand jury room looming large in front of us, I stop and search Scotty's eyes. "Are you…sure about this?"

His face is set with the same stony resolve he has when we're about to go toe-to-toe with a killer. "You said you wanted me to fight. Hell, you're the whole reason I _can _fight this. I didn't have any fight left in me until…" Casting a furtive glance around the hallway, he steps closer to me and lowers his voice. "Until last night."

A thrill zings through me at the memories, and Scotty's slight grin indicates he might be remembering the same thing.

"But now…now I got my fight back, Lil. And goin' in there and testifyin' is the only way I can think of _to_ fight. For me. For _us."_

A smile is creeping across my face, one that, try as I might, I can't hide.

His deep brown eyes take on an earnest shine. "Y'know, maybe this is a bad idea, I dunno, but it's the only one I got. I go down in flames, fine, we'll get 'em at trial. But if there's even a chance in hell I can make this all be over today so we can we can get on with this, with _us_…_" _he glances from left to right again, and then slips a warm hand beneath my hair and presses a fierce kiss to my forehead. "Then…yeah, Lil. Yeah. I'm sure."

Over Scotty's right shoulder, Calhoun's hazel eyes are getting bigger and bigger.

"Scotty…" My fingers pluck nervously at his coat sleeve as I take a self-conscious step back.

Tossing a startled glance and an embarrassed grin over his shoulder, Scotty opens his mouth to explain, but Calhoun just smiles and pretends to rifle through some court documents.

"Don't worry, you two. I didn't see a thing."

* * *

My coffee has been stone-cold for a while now, and it wasn't any good to begin with, but I'm still clutching the Styrofoam cup, taking occasional, absent sips. There's not much to occupy my attention in this hallway other than the water fountain off to my left and a wooden bench next to the elevator. I tried sitting down for a while, but sitting didn't seem to help, so I've decided to try pacing. Not sure if that's helping, either, but it's better than sitting.

Our co-workers all scattered a few minutes before Calhoun arrived to escort Scotty into the courthouse. Marianne Budzinski, our pharmaceutical-peddling prime suspect in the Hooper case, had just been brought in for interrogation. Normally, I'd have jumped at the opportunity to grill a potential doer, but Will, in that quiet way he has about him, encouraged me to stay here with Scotty while he and Vera took care of the interview. It's probably just as well; this is one of the few times I wouldn't have been able to concentrate on my job.

The elevator dings, and I nearly jump out of my skin. A black-robed, dour-looking judge steps out; a carefully-coiffed attorney, clad in an expensive-looking suit, a bright pink shirt, and paisley tie, nips at his heels, waving a sheaf of papers and chattering in rapid-fire legalese. The judge, muttering something I can't quite make out, hurries down the hall, the attorney still yapping at him as they both disappear around the corner.

Well. That was an interesting distraction. But now, the corridor is quiet again, and the only things I have to occupy my mind are my cold coffee, the dull, throbbing ache in my temples, the web of ever-tightening knots in the pit of my stomach…

…and whatever's been going on behind that thick wooden door for the last two and a half hours. I tried pressing my ear to the door a few minutes ago, but the only thing that got me was a raised eyebrow from a stern-looking uniformed court security officer.

I take another sip of coffee, start another lap of the hallway.

Was this what it was like for Scotty when I was shot? Last night, he told me how he paced the halls of the hospital, not knowing if I'd pull through, and realizing just how devastated he'd be if I didn't…and now, here I am, doing the exact same thing. I almost laugh at the irony.

Remembering our conversation brings to mind some of the questions Strauss asked me on the stand. I was able to shake off most of them before I even left the grand jury room, but the question of Scotty having lingering trauma from my shooting…well, that one I can't quite dismiss. Does he? He seemed fine by the time I returned to duty, but I was such a mess back then that just about anyone would've seemed fine in comparison. And now, thanks to countless hours on my therapist's couch, I've managed to put it all mostly behind me...but some of the things Scotty has said and done the last few days make me begin to wonder, with a sick sense of dread, if maybe it's all still in front of him.

The door creaks open, and my heart leaps into my throat when Scotty emerges. He looks like a boxer who's been in a fight too long, one who's woozy and spent and can barely put one foot in front of the other. His eyes are dark. Haunted. My stomach gives a painful wrench. As bad as it was for me, it looks like it was even worse for him.

Eyes on the floor, he slumps against the wall and scrubs a weary hand over his face. I abandon my coffee cup next to the water fountain and hurry toward him, wishing we were somewhere else, _anywhere_ else, so I could just throw my arms around him and kiss that dark, defeated look into a distant memory.

He glances up at the sound of my footsteps.

"Hey." He sounds as drained as he looks.

My hand finds his shoulder and tries to rub some life back into it through his suit jacket. "You okay?"

The exhausted fighter manages a shaky smile. "I feel like I've been in the ring one too many rounds."

"You wanna go take a walk? Get some air?"

He shakes his head. "Calhoun says it's a quick vote. Only takes thirteen to indict."

My eyes search his, trying to find in their chocolaty depths the reason why he looks so defeated.

In response to my wordless question, he blows out a shaky breath. "Strauss asked me about—about your shootin', Lil. I mean, I expected to have to talk about Yusef, but that?" A slight tremor shudders through his frame. "That threw me."

My heart sinks. "I'm so sorry, Scotty."

"I—I don't even know ninety percent of what I was sayin' in there, I got no idea if I made things better or worse." With a nervous chuckle, he rakes a hand through his hair. "I fought for us, Lil. I really did. I just…ain't sure it's gonna be enough."

"It's enough for me, Scotty."

He looks up. "Yeah?"

Oh, to hell with it. Launching myself toward him, I throw my arms around him and pour everything I'm feeling, everything I have in me, into an impassioned kiss. He's startled at first—who wouldn't be?-but his grateful moan tells me that even if this decidedly unprofessional display costs me my career or costs Scotty whatever's left of his, I've made the right call. He's been staggering through the desert, and he's gulping down my kiss like it's the first water he's had in days.

After what seems like an eternity, but still somehow isn't long enough, I pull away from him and cradle his face in my hands. "Scotty, I love you. No matter what happens, no matter what they decide…I love you." I break off with an embarrassed half-smile. "I know it can't do anything right now, I know it's not much…"

"It's everything, Lil." His arms around my waist, he leans his forehead against mine and drinks me in. "_Everything."_

At the rapid-fire staccato of heels behind me, I slide my arms from Scotty's shoulders and turn to see Calhoun approaching, with an expression I can't quite decipher.

Scotty clears his throat as she stops in front of us."You were right, Counselor. Testifyin' was a mistake, it was a bad idea, it—it was…."

"No." Calhoun cuts him off with a shake of her head. "I was wrong."

My heart hammering, I search her face, wondering if I dare hope for what I think she might be going to say next.

"Eleven voted to indict; seven didn't." Calhoun's mask of professionalism cracks just enough to allow a broad smile. "You are free to go."

A half-laugh, half-sob slips from my lips as I look over at Scotty. He just looks shell-shocked. Stunned. Like he can't possibly have heard her right, can't possibly dare to believe the good news. His eyes light for a brief moment when they meet mine, but he reins it in and turns back to Calhoun.

"Well, for how long?" he asks. "They'll—they'll just charge me again."

"I'll tell the press the DA overreached," Calhoun replies. "The mayor and the commissioner will trip all over their di-" she bites off the word, a mischievous gleam in her eyes, "..._ties_ walking away from this. If they come after you again, it'll just look like they've got a vendetta."

My smile spreading the width of my face, I glance at Scotty. He looks like maybe, just maybe, he's starting to believe the unbelievable.

"Walk the line, Detective," Calhoun says, "and I won't see you again until you're on the witness stand tryin' to put another one of my clients in jail."

Finally, _finally, _Scotty cracks a smile and shakes his attorney's hand. "Thanks."

"Thank you, Rita," I echo. She smiles, nods, and walks away.

Happy tears spring into my eyes, my whole body is watery with relief, and I fear I'll never be able to stop smiling. Meanwhile, Scotty's standing there, blinking, adjusting to the sudden loss of the tons of weight he's been carrying around since that fateful, frigid night. After a moment, the truth seems to sink in, and he heaves an enormous sigh, then slips his hand into mine.

"Take me home, Lil."

I glance over at him in surprise. "But your windows still aren't-"

"No, Lil." His eyes are huge and dark, almost childlike in their sheer exhausted dependence. "Take me _home."_

Finally understanding, I nod, smile, and squeeze his hand as we walk down the hall together.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: **These characters aren't mine, but their real owners aren't using them anymore, so, y'know, finders keepers.

**A/N:** Remember how, in all that intro-babble, I said that Lilly's shooting was comfortably in the past, and nobody was angsting about it? Well, I lied_._

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

**Containing Various Types of Scars**

After signing a form and stashing it in the manila folder on my dining room table, I take a moment to sip my steaming chamomile tea and stroke the silky fur of a snoozing Olivia. Vera and Jeffries got Marianne Budzinski's confession this afternoon, and I'm taking care of a few loose ends. Scotty was right—the ladies _do _love to poison.

Over the rim of my teacup, I catch a glimpse of Scotty, sacked out on the sofa. When we got back from the courthouse this afternoon, he barely managed to shed his tie and unbutton his shirt before crashing into an exhausted slumber. It's almost midnight now, and he's still unconscious. I should probably head for bed myself; God knows I'm tired enough…but I just can't leave him. Not yet.

There's something cozy and companionable about our silence; him sleeping, me scribbling, and I fall back into the pleasant semi-trance that comes with finishing up a case. The others always complain about the paperwork, but for me, it's a way to get some closure, to say a final farewell to the person who's been occupying all my waking hours, and many of my sleeping ones, for the past several days.

I'm two forms from the end when I hear Scotty mumble my name from the sofa. Huh. So he really does dream about me. And from the sound of it, he talks in his sleep. A smile sneaks across my face. That just might be the sweetest, most adorable thing ever.

My pen poised above the form, I wait for a moment, wondering if he'll say anything else. He doesn't, though, and with a quiet chuckle, I scribble my signature and slide the crisp sheet of white paper into the folder.

A moment later, he says my name again…only this time, something in his voice sends a chill down my spine.

"Scotty?"

The only response I get is a tortured shout.

My pen clatters to the table as I jump up and hurry toward the living room, eliciting an annoyed yowl from Olivia. Scotty's tossing and turning on the sofa, white-knuckled hands fisting the blankets, his face contorted in anguish, eyes still slammed shut. He cries out again; something about paramedics, but I can't quite make out the rest.

Quickly, I kneel on the floor beside the sofa and place a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Scotty. _Scotty._"

His eyes fly open, wild with terror, and he raises himself onto his elbows, scanning the room for some unseen threat. He's drenched in sweat, his breath coming in frantic gasps.

Finally, his panicked eyes lock on mine. "Lil?"

I slip up onto the sofa next to him and cradle him to my chest, whispering senseless endearments as I wipe the sweat from his forehead and press occasional kisses to his damp, disheveled hair.

"Lil." My name almost sounds like a sob on his lips as he clutches at me, his fingers digging into my shoulder. "Thank God you're all right. Thank God." His trembling hand grabs one of mine and pulls it to his lips for a few desperate kisses.

Gradually, his breathing slows and his death grip on my hand relaxes. After another minute, he lets go and scrubs his hand over his face with a shaky sigh and a whispered epithet.

My stomach is churning. "Scotty, do you…do you wanna talk about-"

"I was in that hallway."

Wow. Okay. I was expecting him to say no.

Dark, frightened eyes peer up at me. "Y'know, the one on Saturday. With McKenna."

I nod in silent encouragement.

"Bullets….bullets were flyin' everywhere, so many bullets, and the noise, and the smoke, and..." His words are tumbling over one another, tripping from his lips. "And then Mc—McKenna got shot, y'know, and there was still shootin', an' I was just tryin' to keep her alive and me from gettin' my face blown off." He breaks off with a shaky laugh.

"That's good. I like your face." To prove my point, I press a kiss to its salty surface.

"And then...seemed like years, but the shootin' finally stopped, and I went down the hall, y'know, to check on everything…" A shudder racks his frame. "But it wasn't Yusef lyin' there damn near dead, Lil, it was _you._"

"Oh, Scotty." I pull him close.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice breaking, then starts kissing me through my clothes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"I'm okay, Scotty," My fingers stroke his soft, damp hair. "I'm here. I'm fine. It was just a dream."

"Yeah?" He raises his head, then shoves aside my blue cardigan and pulls down the collar of my pajama top just far enough to reveal the slowly fading, silvery-pink scar from my bullet wound. His jaw works as he stares at it. Traces it with a forefinger. His feather-light touch makes me shiver. "I dunno, Lil. Looks pretty damn real to me."

The corners of my mouth tighten in sympathy as I remember my own nightmares in the weeks and months following the shooting; how difficult it was in those panicked first few minutes to sort out what was real and what wasn't.

I yank my top back up. "Scotty, that's from before. The Jacobi case."

"You think I don't know that?"

Oh, his eyes…the inky darkness, the bottomless pools of agony, rimmed with red and swimming with tears…those eyes confirm it. He's not still trapped in that frenzied fog between nightmare and reality. He's fully awake and disturbingly aware of his surroundings.

"Surely you don't think…" I trail off, unable to complete the thought. Scotty's been known to blame himself for things that are beyond his control, but this can't be one of them. Can it?

"I hesitated, Lil." His voice is dull. Flat. "Not—not really, not the way you'd think…but I shot later than I wanted to. Later than I would have if I'da been able to see. I just…wanted to make sure, y'know?"

His hair tickles my cheek as I nod. "It was a good shoot."

"That's what I kept tellin' myself. IAD. Everyone. Focused on what I did right and blocked out the rest, and after a while, I just…stopped thinkin' about it. I had to. I did what I needed to do, you came back to work, they finally fixed the window, and everything got back to normal."

My mouth twitches in an ironic smile. "Normal. Right."

"I thought I was fine, Lil. I mean…compared to you, I was doin' great." He winces. "No offense."

"It's okay, Scotty. I was…I was pretty messed up for a while."

His warm, strong arm tightens around my waist. "And I managed to not think about it…until Saturday night, when Dragin said gun, and all I could think about was you, alone in Observation, with Ed, and how I'd be damned if I was the reason you got put in a situation like that again. That's why I went. Why I told you to stay."

I squeeze his shoulders. "I know."

"I guess Strauss knew, too." His chuckle is dark. Bitter. "'Cause he asked me about Yusef for a while, and I did okay, but once he started in on your shootin'…" He swallows hard, shakes his head. "I think the only reason I got off was the grand jury felt sorry for me."

"Or it could've been how you proved your actions weren't criminal."

He looks up. "Yeah?"

"Might not've been how you wanted to win, Scotty, but you proved you weren't drunk. You weren't a racist. You're just a cop, a _damn good_ cop, who saw his partner get shot and maybe isn't completely over it yet."

"Well, how the hell am I supposed to be?" A tense hand rakes over the top of his head, down the back, and then back up before it drops onto his lap. "God, Lil, the way you looked, lyin' there…you were so pale…there was so much blood…"

I feel sick.

"Do you know it took 'em eight hours to put you back together?" Grief-stricken eyes flit in my direction, and I have to look away. "_Eight hours_, Lil, pacin' the goddamn hallway, seein' your blood on my tie and thinkin' that was it, that was all I'd have left of you, that you were gonna die right there on the table…"

Forcing my own uncomfortable memories aside, I pull just far enough away that I can touch his cheek, look him in the eyes. "Scotty, you know it wasn't your fault, right? Do you _know_ that?"

"Yeah. I know." His gaze lingers on mine for a moment, then falls onto that circle of pale, puckered skin. "I just…keep thinkin' if I'd shot just a split second quicker, I mighta got to him before he got you."

My heart starts to pound as I remember that horrible day, remember the momentary relief I felt when Ed finally agreed to let Kim Jacobi slip through the door…and then the fear streaming through my veins when I turned and saw the callous look in his eyes, the barrel of his gun. I remember hoping and praying that Scotty somehow would be able to hear my voice and know where I was and _do it now…_

…and then I looked to the right, into Interrogation, and I saw him. I saw Scotty. He was there. Just like he'd promised, he'd come through for me. He was _there_. Rising up, gun in hand. Just a fraction of a second, a fragment of a memory, but it's enough.

"Scotty, do you remember the day I came back, when I said thanks for what you did?"

He smiles slightly. "I remember."

My fingers wrap around his and give them a gentle squeeze. "It was more than just savin' my life. It was about you bein' there. I needed someone, needed _you, _and you were there. I could see you through the glass, and I knew I…wasn't alone. I had _you_."

"Still do, Lil." He lifts my hand and brushes his lips over the back of it.

Our hands are halfway to my lap when I change course, bringing his back to my scar.

"Lil, what are you...?" He starts to fight it, but I stand firm.

After a moment, his fingers relax against my skin. Where I once felt the searing pain of Ed's bullet, now I feel nothing but warmth and love from the man who saved me.

"This…this is just a thing that happened to me. It's a risk we take when we show up to work every day. What I remember most about that day, Scotty…what I remember most now is you. Showing up. Being there when I needed you."

"I want to, Lil." His lips meet the sensitive flesh just above the scar. "As long as I'm alive and kickin', I want to."

The tips of my fingers skate through that gorgeous raven hair of his. "I want you to. I _need_ you to. And I want to…for you."

When he sits up, there's a hint of a teasing glint in his eyes. "I think…maybe…I could get used to that."

"Maybe?" I quirk a brow.

"Maybe." His smile finally reaches his eyes, and we both breathe a contented sigh.

I stand up and start to fiddle with the sash of my cardigan. "Do you want me to let you get some more sleep?"

"Nah." His hand races through his hair again. "I don't think I'd be able to. Not for a while, anyway."

Sudden, wicked inspiration strikes. "Well…maybe I can think of a way to keep you distracted."

"Oh?"

Straddling him, I lift his chin and capture his lips with mine. He moans quietly and opens his mouth to me, one hand tangling in my hair, the other trailing down my neck, my chest, untying my cardigan…

"What do you think?"

"I think," he says against my neck, between kisses, "that this…is one of your most brilliant ideas, Detective."

"Yeah, I thought so, too."

He pulls away for a second, looking at me with lust-darkened eyes, and grins as he flips us over.

I yelp in surprise, then laugh. For the second time in as many nights, I'm drowning in my sofa cushions.

* * *

**A/N:** I was so intrigued by what Scotty shared about his experience with Lilly's shooting that I wanted to dig around in his head a bit more. The result of that digging is a new one-shot, "Hold You Up," that I hope to have posted very, very soon.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **We're nearing the end of this one, y'all. Just a couple more chapters to go.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own these characters. I also don't own the Flyers hat. Or origami supplies. But I do have a new pair of shoes.

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

**Containing Winged Headgear, New Shoes, and Origami Supplies**

The blinds clank against the glass as I push open the door to Boss's office the next morning and hand him a manila folder. "Here's the last of the paperwork on the Hooper job, Boss."

"Thanks, Lil." Boss takes the file from my hand, slides it into the white cardboard evidence box, and fishes a thick black permanent marker out of the mug on his desk. "Good work. Especially during such an eventful week."

I can't suppress a chuckle as I take the marker from him and bend down to write "CLOSED" on Eldon Hooper's box, sensing the grateful presence of the long-departed aspiring astrophysicist as I do so. Eventful…that's definitely one way to describe it.

Finishing the final task associated with Dr. Hooper, I cap the marker and straighten up. Through the slats of the blinds, I can see the rest of our colleagues milling around the bullpen. Will's in the kitchen, stirring a fresh mug of coffee, while Vera's digging around in a desk drawer and retrieving…oh, dear God, is that the Flyers hat?

Sure enough, with a proud grin and a triumphant flourish, he perches the outlandish winged hat atop his sandy brown hair, which causes Miller, who's on the phone, to roll her eyes with such vigor I'm surprised they don't fall out of her head. Scotty, who's just walked in, drapes his coat over the back of his chair and leans over with some comment for Vera. I can't hear his words, but I can guess at the spirit, because now Nick's glaring and Kat's spluttering with repressed laughter, one hand over the receiver to muffle it.

Boss sighs quietly next to me, and I glance over to see him watching the same scene unfold, his face the very picture of contentment. "Good to have him back."

I caress Scotty with my eyes as he settles into his chair, still engaged in jovial snark with Vera. "Good" doesn't begin to cover how wonderful it feels to look out there and see him. There's a fiery sense of purpose, a quick-burning energy that just wasn't here in his absence.

Through the window, I watch as Kat, sensing Vera's distraction, snakes her free hand over and slides the napkin containing a chocolate frosted donut off his desk and onto her own. Scotty notices before Nick does, and at the series of expressions that flit across Vera's face, from surprise to suspicion to confirmation to irritation, Scotty bursts out laughing, his eyes sparkling, those dimples framing a dazzling smile.

To everyone else, it's back to normal, and I know Scotty's happier than he was a week ago, for lots of reasons. But there are shadows behind his smile. A touch of darkness in those chocolate eyes. After his dream last night and the discussion that followed, neither one of us got much sleep. He wasn't interested in giving his nightmares another chance to catch him unawares, and I was too concerned about him to do much more than catnap. Plus, well…we found other ways to pass the night.

Beside me, Boss clears his throat. "Somethin' on your mind, Lil?"

My gaze slides toward him uneasily. "I…."

The rest of my thoughts linger on the tip of my tongue, waiting for the go-ahead from my brain. I wasn't quite ready to talk about Scotty with Boss yet, for any of the reasons I know I need to, but the way he's looking at me tells me I'm not going to get off the hook.

Taking a deep breath, I plunge ahead. "Boss, did Scotty ever get any kind of…y'know,_ help_… after the Jacobi job?"

The lieutenant's graying eyebrows shoot up past the rims of his glasses. I can't blame him, really. Despite the fact that he took a bullet that day, too, something which only served to cement our already strong bond, I haven't talked about the shooting with him any more than absolutely necessary.

Boss slips off his glasses and spends a moment in deep thought. "I know he put in his required hours with the department shrink. Beyond that, it's anyone's guess."

A sigh slips past my lips as I remember my own appointments with Dr. What's-her-name, the ones where I stared straight ahead the whole hour without saying a word, counting the minutes until I could get credit for the session and get one checked box closer to getting back to a job I know now I wasn't ready for. It took several months of struggling on my own and finding a different therapist before I was finally willing to open up and actually deal with what happened.

Knowing Scotty, I can't imagine his hours with the department shrink went any different than mine, and if he didn't seek out anything better on his own, well…that just confirms what I already know.

"That's quite a while back, Lil." I look up to see Boss frowning at me. "There somethin' I'm…missin'?"

My hand flutters nervously in the air. "Strauss… brought it up when I was on the stand yesterday. He asked if I thought…what happened to me could've affected Scotty's judgment in the shooting, and…"

"And you thought it did?"

"He insisted, Boss." My eyes meet his. "When we saw Dragin get hit, I was gonna go in and back up his partner. But when Dragin said there was a gun, Scotty insisted on goin' himself, and I let him, because I didn't want to waste time arguing with him."

"Right," Boss encourages with a slight smile.

"And now, after…" I pause, wondering just how much information I should share, especially since Scotty and I haven't really talked yet about how to go public with our relationship, "…after some of what he's said, I know why he went in, and…"

Boss lays a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Well, he's out there in the bullpen where he belongs, so whatever happened on the stand must've helped his cause."

Outside, Kat's finished her phone call, and she and Vera are engaged in their usual affectionate bickering. Scotty's sipping his coffee, looking at something on his phone, and occasionally adding a volley of his own snark, much to Vera's chagrin and Miller's amusement.

"That's just it, Boss. I think what I said in there did more harm than good. I think Scotty took the stand because I was his best chance, and I—I feel like I let him down."

Boss rubs a hand over the top of his head. "I think we all did, Lil."

My eyes flit over in surprise. "Boss?"

"We were so busy worryin' about you," he replies with a tight-lipped grin, "that Scotty fell through the cracks. And I should've seen it. It was his first kill shot, it was _you_…I should've known. I saw him at the hospital."

"Yeah?"

"You were in a coma four days, and I never once came to see you when he wasn't already sittin' by the bed, holdin' your hand." Boss gets a faraway look in his eyes as he slips his glasses back on. "I remember the third day, Miller and I had to practically drag him out and force him home to get a few hours' sleep. Of course, you woke up while he was gone." He chuckles. "I don't think he's forgiven us for that yet."

Tears flood my eyes. All this time, I thought there was no one they could call. And in a way, I was right. Calling Scotty would've been pointless.

He was already there.

As I look at him through the blinds, the love in my heart spills over, sending its gentle tendrils to warm my whole body, even to my fingers and toes. A smile spreads across my face, a smile I couldn't stop if my life depended on it.

Scotty glances up then and sees me, his expression startled at first, then melting into one so warm, so tender, that my heart feels like it's about to break from the sheer wonder of it all. He was _there_. The whole time, he was there. I had someone…and not just someone, I had my friend. My partner. The man I love.

I had _him._ Scotty.

The hot tear splashing my cheek jolts me back to reality, back to the fact that I'm standing right next to my boss, his boss, _our _boss. Scotty seems to come to the same realization I have, because he quickly turns his attention back to Vera and the hat, and I hastily wipe away the escaped tear, but the feeling of Boss's steely gaze on me tells me I'm too late.

"So. He finally told you."

Heat creeps into my cheeks as my smile just gets bigger and bigger.

"And from the look on your face," Boss eyes me over the rims of his glasses, "I can only assume that you had something similar to tell him?"

A slight giggle escapes my lips. Oh, I've officially lost it. Giggling in front of my boss?

Boss sighs again. "So it looks like I'm gonna have to do some rearranging after all."

"Sorry, Boss." I can't help but laugh again at the irony. The idea of not working with Scotty anymore, of getting a new partner, was what got us here in the first place, what so terrified me that I finally faced what had been in my heart for God alone knew how long. But it doesn't matter now. Scotty and I are…partners…in a different sense.

"Well, Lil," Boss's eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. "It's about damn time."

* * *

A few minutes later, I'm settling into my desk with a fresh mug of coffee.

"Morning, Scotty." It's not the first time I've seen him this morning, but our co-workers don't need to know that.

"Mornin', sunshine." My heart does a flip at his husky tone and lopsided grin.

He leans a bit closer to me, not so close as to be unprofessional, but close enough that I get goosebumps anyway. "Everything okay?" Eyes sparking with curiosity, he glances toward Boss's office, where the lieutenant's making a phone call.

"Yeah. Fine." I smile over at Scotty as brightly as I dare, then lower my voice. "We'll talk later, okay?"

He nods.

We desperately need a distraction, and, fortunately, Vera's ridiculous headgear provides it. I'm unable to hide my grin as I look over at him. "What's with the hat, Nick?"

"Playin' the Penguins tonight," Vera replies. "Need all the luck we can get."

"Luck?" Kat retorts. "You keep that hat on, your ass is gonna need more than luck tonight." The significant look with which she levels her fiancé makes it abundantly clear she's not talking about hockey.

She and Vera stare at one another, neither one blinking or backing down. After a long moment, Vera reaches up, fingers the plush wings, and looks like he's strongly considering removing the hat, but then his hand falls back to his desk with a thump.

"Sorry, Miller." His eyes are gleaming with mischief. "Hockey wins out tonight."

"That's fine." Miller lifts one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. "Just don't come cryin' to me when the Pens kick your ass." She pushes her chair back from the desk. "I need a refill."

"I'll come with." Vera grabs his mug and follows Miller into the kitchen, the wings on the hat flapping with each step.

"Welcome back, Detective."

I glance up to see Boss standing off to Scotty's right, placing his badge onto the corner of his desk with a proud look on his face. It's official. Scotty's back.

We exchange a glance as Scotty reaches forward to claim his badge. I'm beaming, but he looks suspicious. "What's the brass want?"

"Well," Boss replies, "after _extensive_ negotiations, you're lookin' at a command discipline and anger management."

Scotty absorbs the information with a slight nod as he slips the shiny shield back onto his belt.

"And for the moment," Boss taps Scotty's desk with two fingers, "you're on desk duty."

"Desk duty?" Scotty glances up at Boss in surprise. "Wait, for how long?"

Boss slips a business card from his shirt pocket and extends it toward Scotty. "Until she says you're not."

Taking the card, Scotty gives it a moment's wary consideration, then looks back up at Boss. "Who the hell is Laura Romani?"

"She's a trauma specialist, Scotty," Boss replies. "Lost a leg in an IED explosion during her second tour in Iraq. Came home, got a Ph.D., and now she's a widely-recognized expert in the treatment of PTSD. She works a lot with returning soldiers and first responders."

My eyes flit up to study my boss's face. The look in his eyes suggests that his knowledge of this Dr. Romani might be more than just checking out reviews on the internet.

_Thank you_, my heart whispers.

A barely-perceptible nod, and then Boss turns his attention back to Scotty, who's mounting the expected protest. "Boss, I'm fine. Really. I'm-"

He trails off when our eyes meet. I peer deep into those endless coffee-colored pools. After a moment, he drops his gaze to the desk and bites his lower lip, swallowing whatever half-hearted objections he was about to offer.

"I've taken the liberty of making your first appointment with her this afternoon at two," Boss adds quietly.

"Yeah." Scotty pockets the card. "Okay."

I blow out a breath I didn't know I was holding as Vera and Miller filter in from the kitchen and sit back down. I note with some curiosity that Vera's hat is in his hand rather than on his head, but it all becomes clear as he retrieves the remnant of his donut from Miller's desk.

Boss squeezes Scotty's shoulder. "You're gonna get through this, Scotty. You're too good of a cop, too good of a man, not to."

My heart warms at his words.

"And when you come back," Boss's voice is louder now, drawing the attention of the whole squad, "you and Rush won't be partners anymore."

A surprised murmur ripples through our little cluster of desks. It seems they're all too distracted to notice the flush blooming on my cheeks.

I hazard a glance at Scotty. "I'm sorry," I tell him, _sotto voce_. "Boss asked, and I…"

"S'okay." Scotty's eyes are gentle; his mouth quirked in a boyish grin. "Ain't like we were gonna be able to hide it."

A smile tugs at my lips. "Probably not."

"This comin' from IAD?" Vera blusters, rising half up out of his seat. "'Cause if this is their pound of flesh, I'll-"

"No," Boss replies evenly. "It's comin' from me."

Vera sits down with a puzzled look on his face.

"In light of…recent developments," Boss continues, with a glance at Scotty and me, "I think it's best to make a change."

Kat's brows slam together. "Recent developments?"

After a brief, wordless request for permission, Scotty reaches over and covers my hand with his own, his warm, strong fingers wrapping protectively around mine. His smile is just as bright as mine must be, his whole face aglow with joy.

"Whoa," Vera breathes.

"Well, I'll be damned," Jeffries says softly.

" 'Bout time," Kat exclaims, then turns her attention to Vera and Jeffries. "All right, Turner and Hooch. Cough up."

With an affectionate roll of his eyes, Will fishes in his wallet and pulls out a couple bills. "You earned it."

Vera looks confused, but Miller's not buying it. "C'mon, Nicky. Mama needs a new pair of shoes."

Grudgingly, Vera tosses a twenty in her direction, and she snatches it up with a gleeful chortle.

I bubble up with laughter as I look at my partner…well, okay, _former _partner. "Those three were betting on us the whole time?"

"Can't blame 'em." Scotty grins as he gives my hand a squeeze, then releases it. "Although us actually gettin' together? Ain't sure that's somethin' I'd have put money on."

"See?" Vera indicates Scotty with an outstretched hand and an indignant expression. "Even Valens wouldn't have bet on them."

"Woman's intuition, Nick," Kat folds the bills and tucks them into her shirt pocket with a fond pat and a proud smirk. "Someday you'll learn to trust it."

"So how's this gonna shake out, John?" Jeffries asks, bringing all our attention back to the matter at hand.

Boss takes a sip from his coffee mug. "I think we'll rotate partners for a while. See who matches up well."

We all glance around with smiles and encouraging nods. We've become a pretty tight-knit bunch, and I can't think of any combination of the two of us that isn't dynamite.

"And if it's all right with the rest of you," Boss continues, "I'm not plannin' to tell IAD about Scotty and Lill just yet. They've been up our asses enough as it is this week, so I'm just gonna tell 'em I made a judgment call and leave it at that." He peers at Scotty and me over the rims of his glasses. "As long as you two keep it professional, this can stay in-house."

The little group nods and looks at us, their expressions ranging from affectionate pride to lingering disbelief.

As soon as Boss turns back toward his office and our colleagues turn their attention back to their respective tasks, Scotty leans in, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Professional, huh? Well, there goes my fantasy about doin' it in Interrogation."

I'm sure he's expecting me to get all flushed and flustered, which I do, for about half a second, before I shoot him an equally devious grin and lean over to whisper close to his ear. "At least not during daylight hours…"

An interesting myriad of emotions flickers across Scotty's face, and if I'm not mistaken, there's just a hint of crimson creeping into that golden bronze skin of his. Huh. Guess I'm not the only one who blushes around here.

"Well." Kat lifts her coffee mug in a silent toast. "Welcome back, jackass."

Vera does likewise. "Yeah. Welcome back."

Scotty clears his throat and raises his own mug. "Thanks."

As soon as our improvised toast is over, Jeffries tosses a stack of brightly-colored paper onto Scotty's desk, followed immediately by a thin book.

"Origami For Total Morons," Scotty reads aloud, then looks up at Jeffries with a wry grin. "Yeah. Thanks for that."

Will's eyes twinkle with subtle mischief. "Just passin' the torch," he replies.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: **All good things must come to an end, and this is, in fact, the last chapter. It's been great getting reacquainted with these characters, and with you, my wonderful readers, both those I knew before and those I've had the privilege of getting to know as I've written this one!

The title for this story came from Switchfoot's song by the same name. It's a wonderful song, and one that I think fits Scotty and Lilly pretty well.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

**Containing Chinese Takeout and an Open Door**

"Yeah, okay. Thanks." Scotty's phone emits a quiet chirp as he presses the button to end the call, then lays the phone down on the coffee table amid a scattered assortment of chopsticks, sauce packets, and white takeout containers from our favorite Chinese place.

Leaning back into the couch, he stretches his arm over the back of it and turns to me. "That was my landlord. Said it's gonna be at least the end of next week before they get the windows fixed."

With a smile, I shove my empty chicken lo mein container into the sauce-splotched plastic to-go sack. "Guess that answers the 'your place or mine' question for a while, huh?"

Glancing up at him as I reach for the remnants of the rice and his kung pao shrimp, I expect to see Scotty preparing a witty retort, or at least echoing my smile. He does manage a small grin, but it's merely a reflexive twitch of his lips. It doesn't even come close to reaching his eyes.

"Everything okay, Scotty?" The bag rustles as I knot the handles and push it to the far corner of the coffee table. He's been pretty quiet tonight, but I attributed that to a long day and lots of things to process. We took a rain check on drinks with the gang at Jones', opting instead for a quiet evening with our carryout and a few Big Bang Theory reruns. I wasn't going to push him to talk; I figure his shrink did enough for the both of us.

Scotty pauses, a variety of emotions flickering across his face. He tries to give me a reassuring smile, but it falls short. Finally, he takes my hand in his, with a dark look in his eyes that makes my stomach start to churn.

"Lil…I, uh…I'm not okay."

"I know." I give his hand a squeeze.

"Yeah, but I didn't really figure that out until I had that dream last night. And talkin' with the shrink this afternoon kinda made me realize just _how…_not okay I am." He heaves a shuddering breath. "Every time I close my eyes, Lil, I see Yusef lyin' there, blood everywhere, but I'm afraid to go to sleep, y'know, 'cause…"

I nod and cover our clasped hands with my other one, my thumb tracing the peaks and valleys of his knuckles.

"Havin' my badge back feels pretty good, but Boss still has my gun, and the thing is…" he rakes a hand through his hair, "I don't _want_ it back. Not yet. And when I get it, I—I got no idea how I'm gonna be able to even _look _at it, let alone pick it up, aim it at someone, fire it…"

"Yeah." I remember the first time I went to the range after I shot George Marks, how it took me half an hour just to pick up the damn gun, even longer before that twisted smile didn't flash before my eyes every time I cocked the hammer.

He looks over at me, the fine lines around his eyes and across his forehead etched deeper than I've ever seen them. "I'm no good to anyone right now, Lil. There-there ain't no quick fix for this, and I'm thinkin', y'know…maybe we should think about waitin' on this whole thing. On us. Until I'm better."

My heart recoils under the bucket of ice water that's just been dumped all over it. "This comin' from the shrink?"

Scotty looks away and shakes his head. "No."

I don't know whether that makes me feel better or worse.

"I thought you said you had big plans for us, Scotty."

His eyes are wide. Earnest. "I _do_ have big plans. Lil, you got no idea the kinda plans I got for us…but I ain't sure now's the time for us to start workin' on 'em."

I slide my fingers free and search his face. "Is that really what you want?"

"No!" Scotty leaps off the couch and starts pacing. "No. _God_, no. I've dreamed of bein' with you for—for _years, _Lil_. _Ever since that moment in the hospital when I realized just how much I love you, just how much you are to me, it's_ all_ I've wanted. Okay? Waitin' is—is the _last _thing I want. But you, what we have…it's too precious to screw it up. I don't wanna ruin what could be a great thing 'cause I'm, y'know, fucked up in the head."

A painful shadow crosses his face, one that speaks of untold years of immeasurable sacrifice. So _that's _what this is about. My worries evaporate like morning mist now that I know the source of his.

"Scotty, you're not…this isn't like…Elisa."

He jerks his head up in surprise. I don't blame him; since her death, I think I've only dared mention her name a couple times in his presence.

"PTSD isn't even in the same ballpark as schizophrenia, Scotty. It's a long road, but it's not a life sentence. I came back from it, and so will you." I get up off the couch and walk toward the fireplace, where he's trying to rub some of the tension from the back of his neck. "It's so hard to see when you're in the middle of it, I know. But you'll get through it."

"Yeah, but when?" He drags his hand through his hair. "I don't want you to settle, Lil. I don't want you waitin' around for years and years for someone that might never be the same."

I find myself smiling. "You're kiddin' me, right?"

Surprised brown eyes flicker in my direction.

"You're Scotty Valens. You're gonna fight this, and you're gonna win."

"Yeah?" He tosses me a hint of a grin. "How do you know that?"

Closing the gap between us, I place my hands on his shoulders. "Because it's who you are. Like Boss said today, you're too good of a man not to come back from this. You'll fight, and you'll win, because that's what you do. Besides, you've got the squad on your side, you've got Boss, the shrink. And for whatever it's worth, you've got me, too, and I'm gonna be damn hard for you to get rid of."

His eyebrows lift. "Yeah?"

I grab his hands. "Scotty, I'm not goin' anywhere. If what you really, really want is space, if what you need more than anything is for us not to be together, then…okay. But that doesn't mean I won't be here for you."

The darkness in his eyes starts to fade just a little, and I feel the sting of tears behind mine as I continue. "You renting that truck made me realize I can't live without you, how lost I'd be without you, how much I love you. More than…more than I've ever loved anyone. Good, bad, or ugly, I love everything about you , and if this is just some kinda…I dunno, misguided attempt at nobility or somethin', then you can just knock it off, because I'm here, and I won't let you go through this alone. Not if you don't want to."

Scotty swallows hard. "Oh, Lil." His hands steal around my waist.

Smiling up at him, I lace my fingers behind his neck. "Besides, if we wait until we're both perfect, then this..._us..._it'll never happen."

He quirks a brow at me.

I give a self-deprecating chuckle. "Scotty, I've got so many issues my therapist's already lookin' at retirement condos in Maui."

Scotty grins and brushes an errant lock of hair behind my right ear. "Lil, I don't care what kinda issues you got. You know that. I love you no matter what."

I cock my head and arch a brow. "And don't you think there's a chance I might feel the same way about you?"

He chuckles quietly.

"Your issues don't scare me, Valens. I've been through the same thing, and I'm gonna be right here with you. I won't let you go through it alone."

"Like you did." His eyes start to darken again, and I catch and hold them, desperate to snatch him out of the rabbit hole before he goes back down it.

"Hey. I wasn't alone, Scotty. Back then, I—I thought I was, but now I know I wasn't. The way you've been lookin' out for me since then, takin' care of me, watchin' over me from as close as I'd let you come…I wasn't alone. I just didn't see it."

His lips tighten as he nods.

"Besides," I add, with a sly grin, "Boss said this mornin' he and Miller had to drag you out of my hospital room and force you home."

Scotty offers a slight smile. "Well, I couldn't leave you, Lil. Not like that."

"And I can't leave you." My hands skate up his shoulders and gently grasp the sides of his face. "As long as you'll have me, I'm not goin' anywhere."

As thought to prove my point, I draw him down for a kiss. It's a little bit like our first one; soft, quick…but not tentative, because this time, I know how he'll respond. One of my hands slides down his chest, feeling the vibrations of his quiet moan as he draws me flush against him and drinks deep.

When we pull apart, the light is slowly returning to his face.

"You're here." He says it like he's still trying to absorb it. As though he's still half-wondering if the last few days have just been a very long, involved, hyper-realistic dream.

My fingers interlaced at the small of his back, I grin up at him and pull him close. "I'm _here_."

That cocky gleam, the one I first spied outside the interview room the moment he shook my hand and bragged in what I'm sure he thought was modest fashion about the job that brought him to Homicide, surfaces in his eyes. "Then this PTSD bullshit is on notice. I'm gonna kick its ass."

I'm _beaming_. I can't help it. I can't remember ever being so proud of him.

My smile must be contagious, because it's spreading over his face, too. "I love you so much, Lil." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "You got no idea how much."

"Well," I lower my voice seductively, "I have _some_ idea."

The expression in his eyes changes from cocky to desirous in a heartbeat, and he claims my lips again. There's nothing soft or quick about this kiss. It's long and slow-burning, each of us communicating all the things our overfull hearts can't figure out how to put into words. Only when our need for oxygen outweighs our need for one another do we pull apart, and we just grin sort of stupidly at each other for a moment, trying to catch our breath.

"C'mon." He takes my hand and leads me toward the couch.

"Nope. Not tonight, Valens." I slip my fingers from his grasp and head for the stairs.

Over my shoulder, I see him turn to face me, the exact sort of flabbergasted expression I'd hoped for splashed across his face. "What, you're playin' hard to get_ now_?"

I pause, one hand on the stair railing, a teasing smile tugging at my lips. "I got a nice, big, comfy bed upstairs. One I fully intend to use tonight."

Realization dawns, and his bemused expression melts into a lusty smirk. "Y'know, all the times I've been here, I don't think I've ever been in your bedroom."

"Well, there's a first time for everything, Valens." I start up the stairs, the creak of the second step accompanying me as I toss a smile over my shoulder. "You comin'?"

His eyes sparking with mischief, he crosses the living room in a couple of long, quick strides and collides into me, quite literally sweeping me off my feet. I yelp in surprise at finding myself upended and in Scotty's strong, steady arms.

"Thank God," he says as he starts to climb the steps, a bit slower now that he's carrying me.

I arch a questioning brow.

"No offense, Rush," his lips curve in a wicked grin, "but your couch sucks."

I reply with a kiss to his cheek. "Good thing I'm not plannin' on you sleepin' there anymore, then, huh?"

He responds with a quick, joyful kiss to my lips as we reach the top of the stairs and he sets me down gently outside my bedroom. "Yeah. Good thing."

My heart swells with adoration as I look at him, at this gorgeous, brave, loyal, wonderful man who's been by my side for the last seven years. It seems odd that it took two violent events; my shooting and this one, to finally make us realize how we felt about each other, and yet, if I look again, it's not so strange. He was there for me after I was shot, and now I have the privilege of being there for him while he recovers from this shooting.

It's symmetry, it's poetry, it's a powerful testament to just how strong the two of us are together. What a great team we make, both on the job and off.

"C'mon, Scotty." With a smile, I take his hand, turn the handle, and lead him through the door.

* * *

**A/N: **The End. Well, y'know, except for the epilogue...


End file.
